Fishing the Rockies

One Last Fix...

2011-11-24T21:50:00.014-07:00

Alright - I'm going to by-pass the chatter and just post some pics from the last few outings.

Actual fish pics seem to be in short supply in the blog-o-sphere as of late, so here's my contribution.

There's not a lot because, frankly, I just haven't focused too much on blogging this year - and my last outing, I lost my net on the hike in, so getting any type of video was really the last thing on my mind when I hooked a fatty.

Anyway, in case I'm too lazy to make a post in the next month, Happy Holidays to all of you fly-heads...

And in case I'm too lazy to make a post in the next 6 months...see you on the water.

Hoisting the Colors

2011-10-10T08:14:00.000-06:00

In answer to KVeMAN's comment - yes, I am still alive. And yes, I have been fishing. What I haven't been doing is posting. And it has absolutely nothing to do with being lazy, or because the college football season kicked off a month ago, either. Nope.

It's mostly due to time, which seems to be at a premium as of late. When I was a kid, I always thought that growing up and being older was the ultimate score - no set bedtime, no school or homework...just go to work, get paid and spend the hours in-between having fun, doing cool adult things.

Yeah, I wasn't too bright as a child. Actually, I'm not too bright as an adult, either, but I digress...

Come to find out, this whole 'grown-up' deal is a major rip-off. Aside from not being remotely close to what I envisioned as a kid, time seems to speed up the older I get.

With the exception of meetings. Somehow, those seem to be immune to the mysterious space/time continuum that comes with getting old.

Stoopid inconsistent space/time continuum.

So, being that my last post was in....JUNE (*gasp*), I think it's high time I hoist the main-sail and unfurl the colors once again.

Don't be alarmed - that's just me using sailor's jargon and trying to sound all pirate-y and such. How that translates into me stepping up my blog posts is a mystery, so let's just pretend that it all makes sense.

So the month of July was busy...between vacations, work and travel, there was limited time to hit the rivers. But when I did manage to get to the water, the fishing was so-so, due to wacky run-offs, excessive heat/cold, the Amish curse (a superstition of mine), Fate (who has it out for me) and the undeniable fact that I have the attention span of circus monkey.

Not that I didn't catch any fish - there were some nice ones thrown into the mix, but nothing to get too excited about.

August...essentially a lather, rinse and repeat of July. However, my son and I did manage some good hook-ups (above) during a weekend spent in Estes Park, including this large sucker that took a Black Mamba that Tristan was drifting low and slow:

Labor Day weekend was great - three rivers in three days: Friday evening, the Dream, which produced about a dozen smaller fish for me right around dusk.

Saturday was the Taylor, and a meet-up with Josh (aka Bigerrfish). At the end of 9 hours of hardcore fishing I was a miserable 0-12. That's right. Twelve ginormous fish hooked....and all twelve either spit the bit or snapped my line.

However, there was a herd of sheep-type-thingies down by the river when we arrived, so that was a bonus.

Sunday, I managed to fish Elevenmile Canyon which, after a day of painfully technical fishing on the Taylor, was akin to throwing a line at a stocked pond, and I walked away with a handful of respectable fish after only a few hours.

Fast-forward to this past weekend; my nephew decided to come on out for some fishing - specifically, to hit the 'Canyon' and hunt some lunkers. It was also the weekend of the Fly Fishing Frenzy, with loads of fellow bloggers descending on specific locations, and looking to wreak havoc like a swarm of locust.

And since wreaking havoc is always at the top of my list, I figured I needed to make this all work, somehow, so I decided to split the difference, stay in Estes that Friday night, and meet up with the group on Saturday.

Since my nephew had never been to Estes, and being that he's a fan of the Shining and Dumb and Dumber, the famous Stanley Hotel was a must. Having spent many weekends here, it was great to be able to share the experience with family.

Plus, my son was thrilled to have someone with us that was equally enthusiastic about hunting for ghosts as he is.

I, on the other hand, flopped my lazy arse on the bed and watched college football, since the spirits at the Stanley are probably sick of my schtick by now.

So after a relatively 'quiet' night, we hit Saturday right square in the mouth, starting off with a hearty breakfast, followed by copious amounts of bumper carts, bumper boats and some mini-karts.

After that, it was time to hit the river to remind some fish that their pea-sized brains are no match for a walnut-sized brain. Granted, the rod gives me an unfair advantage, but hey...is it my fault that fish haven't yet mastered the art of building rods to toss fake burgers on to the banks of the river?

I think not.

Now, this trip involved a little less fishing than I would have liked - with an 8-year-old and a newbie, it was a little tough to find some 'me time'.

Most of the trip was spent tying on flies, untangling lines, and trying to put them on to some fish. In between all of that, I was also scanning the crowds for anyone that remotely looked like a blogger that was part of the Fly Fishing Frenzy.

Note to self - Fly Fishing Frenzy bloggers blend. Too well, it would seem.

By the time the fishing came to a halt, I had pulled several fish, my son (who's cast and drift really surprised me) pulled 2, and my nephew...well, let's just say that he enjoyed his time in Estes Park.

To be fair, he's still really new to the entire fly fishing experience, and I'd like to get him out again, just he and I on the water, so we can go over some solid fundamentals that he can build on. Perhaps this Spring....

Oh, and my son caught a snake, as well.

So about 2:30, we had some elk show up on the river - the bull is the one that we noticed first, followed by the cows. Being that he was only about 15 yards upstream from where we were fishing, we decided to pack it in, head back to the truck, gear-down, eat some lunch and watch the animals from the safety of the truck bed.

Several times while we were eating, I thought we'd see someone get trampled - so I kept the camera at the ready, mainly because I have a dark sense of humor and think that shit would be hilarious.

Hey, if you're stupid enough to try and approach a wild animal, and it tears you up...too bad. It's called 'Natural Selection' and it means that you didn't have the wits to avoid obvious danger - ergo, you are erased from the gene pool.

Fortunately(?), no blood was shed, the elk moved on (along with a caravan of gawkers who remained dangerously close to the animals) and we wound up calling it a day a little after that.

But a great day it was - granted, I didn't meet up with anyone from the Frenzy, but we had a great night at the Stanley, had some fun in the morning, and enjoyed some good fishing in the afternoon - not bad. Not bad at all.

Shifting Gears

2011-06-21T20:24:00.001-06:00

It's summer - so it's time to shake the funk, have some fun, and slowly get back into the swing of all things warm weather-ish. And by that, I'm referring to fishing, first and foremost, with a smattering of vacations/camping, swimming and riding motor-x thrown in for good measure.

And maybe just a few fireworks, as well. Ok, maybe a lot of fireworks, being that I am still a primate at heart, and a huge fan of fire and it's integral role in the act of making things explode in epic fashion.

More on that in the July post...

Anyway, summer couldn't have happened at a better time - with the inner workings of my gray-matter still reeling from some heavy situations during the first part of this year, I'm in wicked need of an attitude adjustment to get me back on the path of all things righteous and less...big people-ish.

In other words - I'm sick of having to act like an adult, which means it's time to make an executive decision and shift gears back to play time.

Ironically, I can do that, being that....I'm an adult. *sigh*

And kids are the perfect vehicle for getting your 'childish' on. Whether it's playing a painful game of Ouchy Ball in the dark, or wasting an hour getting my ass kicked at Wii bowling, kids allow us grown-ups to be silly - if only for a little while.

It's also the only time I hit the warm water to bully the panfish - which is what we did on our self-proclaimed Weekend of Epic Fun tour.

As the name implies, the weekend was full of fun activities, the most obvious being fishing. Which we did in spades. We caught so many damn fish that my son lost interest in using a pole, and opted instead to just use the net.

"How much do I get if I catch a fish in the net?" he asked me, while standing knee-deep in the pond. "$30 dollars," I replied, never believing in a bajillion years he'd pull it off.

Guess what? I owe him $30 dollars. And another $10 for the dragonfly he snared, as well. Obviously, I'm someone you can fool all the time.

And once he got the technique down, he wound up snagging another 15 or so fish...with just the net alone. Fly rod? We don't need no stinking fly rods!

The highlight of the day was biting into a sizable cat that kept skirting the edge of the pond like a junk-yard dog on patrol.

Yeah, I wasn't geared up to be hitting a 15-20 lb. cat. Hell, I didn't even think I'd hit pay-dirt to start with...but tying on a version of a worm that the other fish seemed to love as well, I drowned the poor fly with a ton of split-shot just as this prehistoric beast took his pass by my perch.

And I'll be damned - he took it, which surprised the hell out of me.

The surprise soon turned into panic as I realized that this...thing, on the end of my line, could easily snap my 5wt like a toothpick. The sheer power and solid weight of that fish on my line was unlike anything I've ever felt on a long rod.

Lucky for me the line snapped about 30 seconds after I sunk my hook in it's mouth - but I'm thinking I may have to get myself a heavier rig and focus a little heat towards the catfish from time to time.

There were also several carp - much bigger than the cat - that could be fun as hell to land, too.

I just need to avoid those sucker bets that are draining my wallet so I can afford some gear.

Perfect Strangers

2011-06-12T19:00:00.003-06:00

Yup - I've been slacking again. But this time around, I can't fully blame it on being a lazy primate...although I'm going to try my best to do so.

Between work, psychotic weather patterns and the passing of my nephew, it's been a little tough to make it to the river, let alone, show up in the proper mind-set.

Case-in-point: I hit the Canyon a couple weeks back, only to realize that I had left quite a few 'essentials' back at the truck - namely: all three cameras, my sunglasses, lanyard (which was still sitting on the bumper), most of my water, and my cope.

Yeah, it was one of those kinds of trips - seems like I'm always good for one, every year, so I'm just glad I got it out of the way.

With about 2 hours of sleep under my belt, I was up and on the road by 3:30 am...weekends in the summer are not the most ideal time to fish - especially with most of the local waters blown out from run-off.

My plan was to hit the lower sections first, and then move up the canyon before 7 am...but once I got to the water, my plans quickly flew out the window.

Levels were down. Waaaaaay down. It was December/January levels...but the fish were out in force. And most of them were big.

The first hour or so was a Monster's Ball - I swear, there wasn't anything swimming around under the 18 inch mark - and I took 'em to the woodshed.

And they returned the favor on my line. I was running 7x all the way, and one by one, after a brief run, roll or jump, they wound up snapping me off.

All of them, except the biggest of the bunch. Get this: I was a little slow on my set, so the fly actually wound up inside his mouth, with the line stretching out past his teeth. It took me a good 5 minutes to get him in, through numerous rolls, shakes and two jumps - but the line held.

Go figure.

Oh yeah, and there was a creepy little black bird who, for some odd reason, felt he needed to ride my ass for the better part of the morning. I first noticed him when he buzzed me. Afterwards, he ended up on shore, about 3 feet behind me...screaming his head off.

How do I know he was yelling at me? Because when I turned around, he was staring RIGHT AT ME.

At first it was kind of funny because he was so irritated. But after a while, he got into my head, and I started to wonder if maybe I did do something to piss him off. Cut him off in traffic, perhaps? Made fun of his bright yellow beak and he got wind of it? Who knows....

I tried to go into the pack for the camera to get some evidence, but the little shit would fly away any time I turned around. Once I went back to fishing, he'd show up again. Yelling his head off.

Finally, I decided to buzz him on my backcast...and eventually, he split. Which is a good thing, since the last thing I needed was to get into a tussle with a bird I didn't know.

Anyway, the water levels were down, but the fish were out in obscene numbers, so some advice to any of you planning to hit this stretch - get there early to hit the hogs. They're not spooky at all, but they do take some effort to stick. They're more interested in playing grab-ass with each other than eating an artificial fly, so wait for them to quit monkeying around and then tag them in between play-time.

Smaller is better right now, with the levels as low as they are - 6, 7 or even 8x would be my advice (I switched to 6 after the millionth line-snap...and the hits dried up). I know - it's damned if you do, damned if you don't...throw heavier line, and you'll strike out. Throw lighter stuff, and they'll snap ya' off. Pick your poison.

However, they're active, and getting to play some fish, is better than no fish at all - by 1 pm, when I decided to leave, I was a miserable 2 for 18. But hey, I got to ride a lot of ponies, and I did manage one real nice one, so there's no complaints here.

Next up, some warm water fishing with my son - who is dying to put the hurt on some bluegills, and I am more than happy to oblige, since I don't have to spend the week on the road...

Memorial Day / Project Healing Waters

2011-05-27T14:16:00.000-06:00

My life moves forward - I go to work, I raise my son, and I spend time on the river, pursuing a hobby that provides me the comfort and rewards that only another angler can appreciate.

Yeah, my life is pretty simple, and it is that way because others have made sacrifices throughout the years. They've left their friends and families to go to far away places to perform their duty so that others, like myself, can ponder something as trivial as the recipe of the next fly.

Most will return home, while far too many have not. So this weekend, take a moment to thank those (past and present) that have served, and to honor all of those who have died - let their families know that you care, and appreciate, the sacrifices that have been made.

And while you're at it, check out Project Healing Waters, a program initiated and conducted by members of the Federation of Fly Fishers and Trout Unlimited. It serves military personnel who have been injured or disabled, and helps aid their physical and emotional recovery by introducing (or rebuilding) the skills of fly fishing and fly tying.

Saddle Up, Ladies...

2011-04-17T18:58:00.001-06:00

Well, truth be known, I wasn't really 'out' of the saddle per se...it's more like I've been slacking, which is an easier adjective to swallow than 'lazy'.

Not that I'm advocating the ingestion of adjectives at all - or even nouns or verbs, for that matter - but if I had to swallow one, it would have to be 'slacker'.

Unless there was a dangling participle close by, then all bets are off.

Right.

SO...my last post was at the end of November - and with access to the canyon unfairly choked off for the better part of two months, I decided it would be a good time to take a breather myself.

I was planning on taking most of December off anyway, but my nemesis, Fate, was in good spirits and blessed me with...two months of free time. Woohooo!

Well, 'free' is probably not the most accurate description...I had plenty to keep me busy, which is a good thing, being that in most cases, when left with little responsibility, I either wind up in the ER or with the Feds chasing me around the neighborhood.

Between the holidays and some long over-due maintenance on my truck, December was busy, but relatively uneventful.

Unless you consider vacuuming up one of our parakeets with the Dyson, an event.

Yeah...I really did. How am I supposed to know that, in the wild, vacuums are an apex predator in regards to small animals? I think I've identified a serious gap in nature documentaries. Are you listening, NatGeo?

Not to worry, though - she's fine. I, on the other hand, am still a little freaked out about the whole incident. Plus, I don't appreciate being the unwilling pawn of a blood-thirsty cleaning device.

After the holidays, I decided to upgrade my home studio with some new toys, and spent the majority of January transferring software and getting my new machine (12 Core! OH YEA!) up to snuff - so my time hasn't been completely devoted to inappropriate scratching while crashed in front of the TV.

I also managed to hit the river a few times, too, but my heart just hasn't been into throwing a line these past few months due to some serious distractions that I've had rattling 'round in the ol' brain-bucket.

Hey, put some BB's in an empty coffee can and shake it up real good - that's exactly what the distractions sounded like inside my head (minus all of the voices clamoring for sharp objects, of course). Annoying, right?

Yes, annoying enough that I wasn't able to concentrate - and when I'm not dialed in to the task at hand, I don't have fun. And when I don't have fun...well...let's just say that Alpha Male thrives on fun and excitement (and bacon - lots of bacon).

But something encoded into one's DNA can never fully die, and just like that, I woke up one morning with an over-whelming urge to drift some flies.

I also had to pee, but the burning desire to fish is what really stuck out - and since this blog isn't about my morning bathroom rituals, let's just forget I even mentioned it.

And while you're at it, forget that I used the words 'pee' and 'burning' in the same sentence, too. No, really, I insist.

Anyway, the desire was back but I wasn't in the mood for the same-old Canyon action. No, I was craving some uber-manly shenanigans, so I opted to make a run for one of my favorite pieces of water - hell-bent on rolling some pigs to shake the funk of the less-than-stellar enthusiasm that I've been sporting the past 3 months.

Oh, and since Eva unceremoniously stripped me of my Man Badge a while back, I was looking to get that back, too.

"You don't deserve it," she said, with zero compassion. "You can have it back as soon as you start showing some initiative again."

Evil woman.

Actually, she didn't really say that. I made that up. In reality, it was a little closer to this: "What the hell is wrong with you? Do I need to kick your ass?"

If there's one thing I can't stomach, it's losing my Man Badge, and she knows it. Hours of scrubbing, in a steaming hot shower, cannot cleanse me of that shame...

I just wish she'd do the 'trick' where she steals my nose, instead - at least I can live without that.

So, it was off to 'Paradise' - where the water runs cold and deep, and the fish are bigger and more cautious than the late Strom Thurman, waddling around at a civil rights event.

The agenda itself was rather ingenious: spend 2 days fishing.

That's it.

Brilliant, no? And I came up with that one all on my own. Sometimes, being a simpleton does have it's place in life (HA! In your FACE, high school career counselor!).

While the skies were clear and blue, the wind was a demon unleashed, looking to wreak havoc on anything and everything.

It was, without a doubt, one of the more vicious wind storms I've driven through - Highway 285 was shut down to all high-profile vehicles...and for good reason:

Even with the wind, we managed good time, and arrived at the water's edge around 2 pm...and months of listless fishing, and piss-poor enthusiasm became a distant memory as I forced that river to bow to it's Sensei.

I mean it - in about three and half hours of fishing, I beat the hell out of that water and left it in smoking ruins.

The really bad point to the whole evening? Eva had forgotten her reel, and the extra one that I usually carry, just happened to get left behind at home. DOH!

I tried to offer her the use of my gear, but she politely declined. Over and over again.

So we wrapped it up a little early and went back into town to get her a replacement reel and to get ready for the next day - which included a trip into Montrose and a day of fishing with Josh (aka Bigerrfish).

Now, Josh is one of my oldest friends from the Blog-o-sphere world, and he and I had been talking for some time before we actually got to fish together last year - and now it was my turn to return the favor and fish one of his local haunts.

(as a side note: Midgeman is next on my list to fish with - and although my lack of organization in the fly box department would push him to strangle me, I think I could learn a lot by throwing a line with him. Josh...come join us!)

So it was up early and on the road to meet up with Josh at the local McDonald's which, by the way, only had ONE golden arch on the sign. Huh? Isn't it all about the golden ARCHES? As in TWO? Needless to say, this disturbs me greatly...

Inconsistencies aside, Josh lead us to some tail-waters on the Uncompahgre river and we set about harassing the local residents with our own brand of guerrilla fishing.

And although it's fairly obvious from reading his blog, let me say that Josh is an outstanding angler - his river knowledge and angling style are finely honed and it's always a pleasure being on the water with him.

I also need to throw some thanks his way for humoring me in my need to get OCD on specific targets. Let me explain:

I have a problem...well, I have many, actually, but one in particular is with fishing. When I spot a particular target - specifically, one that presents some serious challenge - I zero in and I'll go until I either hook that damn fish, or die trying.

For me, that's the juice.

Josh and I found a curious bend in the river, that was loaded with a lot of nice, sizable fish. The problem was, they were all facing downstream and feeding on a sub-surface back-current. On the top, the water was all over the board, but underneath, it was moving at a good clip back up the river.

Throw in some wind, and one could say that it was a casual angler's worst nightmare. Oh, and it was not easily accessible due to the rocks and steep grade of the bank, and there were trees all around it. Yup...a place only a couple of insane dudes would try to fish.

But we worked it like a rented mule, and then worked it some more and we managed to hook and net quite a few of them. We also lost a lot of fish, too.

Josh showed some sick skills with the long-rod, and I'd like to thank him again for playing with me on that bend.

Meanwhile, Eva was working over a nice little spot on the river and managed to hook quite a few fish, herself. It was a great reward for having missed out 12 hours earlier on the other river. Watching her throw her line, her skills are showing marked improvement - her mends and adjustments are coming automatically now, and her drift is starting to show signs of being spot on...yup, she's got it.

After that, it was back to the trucks for a quick snack, and the 60-mile drive to the scene of the previous night's blood-letting, to roll some hogs.

Josh immediately lazer'd in on some sizable targets, and set about trying to snag them - and it made my heart proud to see him with his own little OCD problem. He worked that run for the better part of an hour, and finally managed to stick himself a monster - the fish was easily pushing the 27-29 inch mark...

After an epic battle of wills, however, the fish broke free...and if you've ever been into a beast of this size, only to lose it after a heroic fight, you know how much that hurts.

Josh did manage to hook into another monster fish which managed to break him off again - welcome to the Taylor, my friend!

I caught a few more fish (lost even more)...and just as it was getting dark, and we were getting ready to head into town for dinner, I hooked into 3 monsters, back-to-back-to-back. One and three managed to shake the hook, but the second wasn't so lucky:

Yeah, 7x, a #22 fly and a prayer. It was touch and go around some rocks, but I finally managed to get him to net.

A big fish story that actually ended in my favor.

Overall, the weekend was epic - great company and fishing that was off the charts. I've got plenty of video to process, and will try to eventually get some posted here.

In the meantime, I'm going to sit back and enjoy my Man Badge again...and plan the next trip to the river.

Old Man Winter

2010-11-14T19:45:00.001-07:00

Ok, so it was cold this morning. How cold, you ask? Really cold. Single-digit-freeze-your-guides-and-line cold. The put-your-hands-in-the-river-and-it-feels-warm kind of cold.

As if all the holiday decorations at the store weren't a big enough clue, the frigid temps and snowstorms we had this past week were a pretty good indication that Old Man winter had silently crept through the backdoor while I wasn't looking. Stoopid non-attentive eyeballs...

Not that cold weather would stop me from fishing - oh no, being about as thick as cement, it doesn't occur to me to stay home - the allure of popping some chubbies trumps what little common sense I do have, regardless of the temps.

Besides, winter has a way of culling the herds, eliminating the fair-weather anglers, which equates to fewer bodies on the water - and this greatly pleases the little anti-social gremlin that lives in my psyche.

For every 2 anglers packing up their gear for the season, there's always a nut-case like me still chugging along with indifference. And I'd venture to guess that some of you are the same way. Freaks.

Lacking common sense, I was at the river's edge at first light - and I was surprised at the water level. This time of year, flows should be down to a Larry-King-at-the-Urinal trickle, minus all of the grunting. However, the water levels were up again, and it was stained to the point that I really couldn't spot much of anything in the low-light conditions.

Not being able to spot targets, I spent the morning blind fishing runs, and managed to pull out a few smaller fish. And by smaller, I mean in the 6-10 inch range. On two of them, I didn't even realize that I had hooked them, so at the end of my drift, I pulled my line to recast and...OOOOPS.....airborne fish.

Yeah, not a good thing. Fortunately, they both survived the G's and their brief role as test pilots.

Actually, it was a smallish kinda day - by the time I left at 1 pm, I had pulled 11 of the little fellas out of the river.

Now, when the sun finally did manage to get up high enough....the clouds moved in. But not before I managed to zero in on several larger tubs in the Ice Box. With the higher flows, however, they were down deep, but they were all active.

So, lobbing some depth charges, I managed to bite into 3 nice subs - all in the 20 inch range. Two of them got lucky and managed to shake the hook after a nice fight, but one of them made it to the net. Oh yeah!

The only downside to an otherwise epic day? Burying a hook into my left index finger, and slicing my right index finger with the 7x. Seriously...that stuff was like a razor - cut clean and deep, and you KNOW it's bad when there's very little blood. Still hurts like hell as I'm typing this.

Not a good day to be an index finger, obviously.

Ah well - it was a great last day in the Canyon for 2010 - the parking lot will be closed for about 8 weeks, so it will be a while before I get to fish it again.

Frying Pan, anyone?

All Hallow's Eve

2010-11-09T10:36:00.000-07:00

It's that time of the year - spooks abound, on the television, in advertising...and on the river, apparently.

And spooky is a great description as to how the fish have been acting - the smallest movements, the littlest flash from something shiny, and they are GONE.

And the numbers...where did all the fish go? Perhaps the same place my socks go to when in the dryer? It wouldn't surprise me to know that, somewhere, in between dimensions, there is a pile of my socks with a shit-load of fish just hanging out around them. Laughing.

Ah well, maybe I've just become spoiled and this is actually the norm - but it sure doesn't mean I have to like it.

Weather-wise, however, it's been nothing but fantastic - chilly autumn mornings, and mild (sometimes hot) afternoons. And with the water levels up, one would expect a bonanza of fishy targets to aim for, as the browns get freaky and the fish all start to gorge themselves for the upcoming winter.

But it ain't happening. At least, not when I've been around. Now, I know I can kill a good time faster than a positive reading on your swab test, but give me a break already.

This past weekend was a repeat of the past few trips to the river - fewer fish, that are a lot more sketchy than I've seen in some time.

I managed my first catch of the morning by basically crawling on my hands and knees to the edge of the water, while using a stand of brush as my cover.

Parked in about 4 inches of virtually dead water, I held no hope of keeping him close after throwing my line - but miraculously, he didn't flinch when I tossed my fly a couple feet ahead of him.

The really stupid part of this story is, with practically no current in the water, I was forced to slowly 'tug' my line downstream, pulling my fly closer to the fish....I admit, that this is pathetic, but desperate times call for desperate measures...

The amazing part of the story is, not being able to tell where my fly was at, or even if the fish was somehow fooled by it's ridiculously unnatural movement, I set my line....and I'll be damned, I nailed him.

Surprise doesn't even begin to describe my reaction. Utter disbelief, is probably more accurate. In any case, I caught myself a fairly decent fish.

After that it was up to the Ice Box...where pickings were just as slim.

I spotted one nice fish in an outside seam, actively feeding - on the surface, it appeared to be an easy drift, but upon further inspection, it was apparent that he was feeding on the back eddy of a rock that was sandwiched between two currents.

While I strive for some challenge in my fishing...this was pushing the limits of my adventurous side. In situations like this, it's not about skill, but rather numbers (of casts) and blind luck.

The one positive I had going for me is that the fish did not run. No matter how many times I tossed my line, and no matter how often I adjusted my position, that fish didn't bolt - which is great, because I had to work him for the better part of 20 minutes before I finally struck pay dirt.

Come to find out, with damage to his eye, the fish is running blind on the right side - yeah, I'm reduced to picking on the handicapped now.

I managed to call it an early day (which was good, given my lack of sleep the night before) and got home early enough to start handing out goodies to all the kiddies that got an early start on their Halloween fun.

Truth be known, it was a pretty great day - losing a couple of fish, and getting a couple to the net. It's really hard to complain about a day like that.

The next few weeks are fairly booked on my calendar, but, I will make time to re-visit my little, squishy friends in the canyon and, just maybe, by that time, they've all returned from wherever it is they've gone to.

And hopefully they've brought my socks with them.

O Fortuna

2010-10-17T15:19:00.000-06:00

For those that may not be up to speed on their Roman mythology, Fortuna is the name of the Goddess that personifies luck. Her more familiar moniker is Lady Luck, which is a name that most of you may recognize.

To me, she is known as Mistress Luck, since I spend most of my time groveling at her booted feet, begging and pleading for a smidgen of love.

Yes, I freely admit I'm a weak man when it comes to women - Goddesses in particular. My Id has thrown me under the bus far too often, so rather than fight it, I just drop and assume the position, hoping it pays off later.

In business terms, this is what we refer to as ROI, or Return on Investment and, yesterday, the returns were not looking all that great. Actually, had my last few trips to the river been reviewed by S&P, the analysis would have had Warren Buffett running for the door.

And speaking of Buffet, that dude still knows how to throw a party. A few years back, during a business trip to Omaha, we were having dinner at Gorat's, a local steak house, and in the room next to us was Warren and his crew. And let me tell you something, they were more rowdy than a frat house on a Saturday night.

Yeah, for an old dude, he still knows how to torch the barn - which is easy to do when you're as loaded as he is.

Anyway, as per the ritual, I made it to the water at first light, cursed the cold, the Amish and the Longhorns in one continuous breath, and then promptly armed my weapon...which was actually a back-up ugly stick, since I unceremoniously crushed my primary rod while gearing up.

Fortunately, I always carry a back-up in my truck, along with jumper cables, tools and the ever-important pack of Bubble Yum. I don't recall having placed that last one on the necessary item list, but then again, I don't seem to recall getting a cat, either, even though I found one lounging on my couch last week, as if it had always been there.

Seven-year olds are a kick in the pants and, if you haven't already, I highly suggest picking one up the next time you're at the store.

Oh, and a little after I pulled into the parking lot, I heard some noises all around me as I was getting ready and turned around to find a pack of coyotes casually strolling through the lot. By the time I had the camera up and running and the headlights turned on, I caught the tail-end (no pun intended) of the last canine (above).

Getting back to the story...an epic day was not in the cards - although the flows were up from my last visit, the fish were scarce. Don't get me wrong, there were some fish hanging about, but they were not present in the numbers that I am used to on this river. Or the sizes, for that matter.

It's as if they all had a party somewhere (Buffet's place, perhaps?) and the only ones left were the unlucky ones that didn't get an invite, either because they weren't cool enough, their mommies dressed them funny, or they smelled of urine.

I managed four hook-ups - but only one made it to my net. The others all spit the fly, with one of them being a big, slow 'Lennie Small' of a fish who was playing all alone in the Ice Box.

This one really displeased me - he was parked in the middle run of the river, and was down low, in about 3 feet of water, so it took me a while to nail the proper drift and depth, which in and of itself, is not a bad thing, since these are the targets I love to set my sights on - the ones that others will pass up after one or two casts because of the difficulty.

So it's really satisfying to finally stick the chubby SOBs, but equally frustrating to lose them after investing so much time and effort (read: actually having to think). In other words, this is an unfavorable ROI.

Add to the frustration quotient the fact that there were limited fish to stalk, and this one really rubbed me the wrong way. Seriously. I felt chafed and itchy for most of the morning after losing this guy - and the expletives that I hurled against the canyon walls are probably still bouncing around up there, indiscriminately scorching the flora and fauna.

Two weeks ago, I actually got a nice 22 inch rainbow to the net (above) in this same stretch - but he wiggled to freedom as I was going for the cliched 'grip n' grin' shot. By the way - caught on a Mamba.

The rest of the time was spent hiking the canyon, looking for some action - but overall, it was actually a really great day. The weather was outstanding, the traffic on the river was minimal, and THE Ohio State got some humility rammed in their collective 'buckeyes' on a trip to Madison.

I can't really argue with that - mainly because I need to get over to Fortuna's house and start groveling again.

Change of a Season

2010-10-01T21:00:00.001-06:00

"Grey-bearded rime hangs on the morn,
And what’s to come too true declares;
The ice-drop hardens on the thorn,
And winter’s starving bed prepares."

John Clare - Autumn

Although the temps have been unseasonably warm here along the front-range, the calendar says that autumn should be in full swing right about now. And the calendar is right, even if the weather here in Denver says otherwise.

Higher up it's fairly obvious now, with a difference of color in the foliage and mornings that bristle with much cooler temperatures. Actually, they could be considered cold, until the sun reveals it's warm, chewy goodness, that is.

Early on, you need to bundle up like that little dude in a Christmas Story and, as the morning progresses, you have to start losing articles of clothing faster than a stripper working a group of Asian businessmen.

Not that I know the nuances of working Asians from a stripper's perspective...it's strictly speculation on my part, but if the economy continues to ravage my portfolio, that may change.

Yeah, I'm nit-picking and trying to find something to complain about...after all, stopping to remove one's clothing isn't all that painful - unless it's at gun point. And the guy holding the gun keeps referring to your mouth as 'purty'. But I digress...

Actually, I consider myself fortunate for many reasons, and the fact that I get the opportunity to fish as often as I do is one of them. Not having to undress for the erotic entertainment of inbred hillbillies would be another.

While I didn't get to follow through with my original plans of an extended weekend of fishing central Colorado, I did find myself, fully clothed, and on my way to the usual haunts a few hours after ushering in the month of October which, again, is another check in the box next to fortunate.

As always, it was early, since I'm just not one to be 'burning daylight' where fishing is concerned. Hell, I don't even 'burn night-time' when it comes to fishing. While I subscribe to the idea that one should never be late for fishing, being on time is still being late, in my opinion.

And I was the one that was late today. Pulling into the parking lot, I found Susan already there and gearing up, proudly parked in pole position. Damn. Being that she is such a kick-ass fishing partner, I give her full credit for her enthusiasm and freely admit that I got beat - this time.

So there I was, with a full day of fishing ahead of me, and a brand new net clenched tightly in my grubby little digits. That's right, a new net to replace the other 'new' net that isn't up to snuff when it comes to bagging the ladies.

Shallow, concave nets force the fish onto their sides...which causes them to flop, sometimes, right out of the basket.

My new net (which is the same as the old net that I lost) is deep, made of rubber so it doesn't harm the fish and, best of all, has a flat bottom, so the fish can sit upright, which keeps them from freaking out.

So now I have a fishing buddy and a new net to make the day that much more pleasant. The only thing that could have made it any more fantastic would be a talking monkey wearing a fez cap. Hey, I can dream, can't I?

Excited as I was, my mood soured a bit once we got stream-side - water levels were loooooow. And from the waterline on the bank, it was obvious that the flows had been adjusted sometime in the past 24 hours...and that's never a good sign.

And sure enough, the fish were meth-head paranoid and flighty. One cast upriver from them, and they were gone faster than $50 dollar laptops at Wal-Mart on Black Friday. On top of that, they were not being very co-operative in the 'taking-the-fly- department. Oh no...they required spoon-feeding, today. Spoiled brats.

So with conditions like that, it's a total miracle when you can get a large target (20-23 inches) to stay in one place, while you try to fish to it. That's exactly what Susan had in front of her - a nice, big hog, that was just waiting for her to feed him his breakfast.

Until the dip-shit across the river tossed his gear INTO HER SPOT, slapping the water hard, and scaring the fish away.

What the hell? Did the institute for the Common Sense Challenged have a massive jail-break recently? It seems like river etiquette and critical thinking skills have been sorely lacking these past few months, as these knuckle-draggers descend upon Colorado's waterways.

As I was saying... the fishing was tough....but the weather was nice, and we managed to hook some fish (and lose some fish) - plus, I made some more new friends in the process.

Later in the afternoon, Susan's friend, Andrew, met up with us on the river. Turns out, he's one cool cat, and I'm looking forward to possibly shredding some water with him in the future.

Also, at the end of the day, in the parking lot, I met Scott, who was just coming off the river, and we started to compare notes about our day. To make a long story short, we had a great conversation, and it was the perfect way to end an already great day.

On the drive home, it sunk in how much I actually appreciate days like this - it helps to remind me that sometimes, it's not always about the fish, but rather, good friends, fantastic weather, and sharing a passion.

Of course, a talking monkey would make it even better...unless he referred to my mouth as 'purty'.

Hammer Down

2010-09-18T17:26:00.017-06:00

Yea...it's been a while since I last made a post - partly because the last two trips to the river were relatively uneventful. Except for a couple of average fish, my last couple of outings has been an orgy of snapped lines and popped hooks, which doesn't make for an interesting blog entry.

However, I did manage to hit the river with Josh (aka Bigerrfish) one weekend, and we had a good time - from disappearing fish, to the elusive (yet all too real) hummingbird hatch, to a fish eating a bat, the day seemed to have it all. Except some fish to net.

The following week, I was on the water with Susan and Laurel ("...did you really have one on?") - again, great time, but lots of lost fish. And flies.

And if there is one way to get me riled up for some payback, it's by sandbagging me on the water.

So with about three weeks worth of frustration at critical mass, I hit the river early this morning. Matter of fact, I was a little too early, and spent the first twenty minutes blind fishing in the dark - and managed to pull out a sickly little fella.

Seriously, this guy was like a side-show freak - larger melon with bulging eyes, humped back and elongated fins. Bizarre. After releasing Quasimodo, I used a ton of hand-sanitizer, just to be safe.

A little after that, it became light enough to see and I proceeded to unleash hell upon those fish. Weeks of frustration dropped like a ton of bricks...and it felt good.

A handful of little fellas, and quite a few lunkers, to boot. And yes, I lost some to popped hooks and snapped lines, as well.

It was about as close to perfect as it gets - except for two things:

My new net. It totally sucks. Not only is it not deep enough, but it's just too damn small. I lost two fish when they 'flipped' out of the net and back into the water. Rest assured, I'll be picking me up a new one this week...like my previous one. Stoopid shallow net.

Secondly, around 11 am my body started cannibalizing itself from hunger - so I decided to take a quick break to eat some food, only to find SURPRISE! I forgot to pack my grub. Now, this isn't the first time my brain has let me down - the list of disappointments is loooooooong, and I'm starting to think it's about time for a Come to Jesus meeting with my gray matter. Stoopid useless brain.

So, there I was, starving...it was getting hot, and the fishing had slowed down (or maybe it was me and my low blood sugar)...and some loud-mouthed knucklehead comes to the water, and starts fishing right next to me and my gear - in a bright white t-shirt and throwing a line with more gear attached to it than the Space Shuttle prior to launch.

What a tool.

But, after the morning that I had had...I let it all slide, loaded up my pack and called it a day. And what a day it was. Well worth the wait...although some other folks may disagree, when they end up buying the first round.

Semi Epic

2010-08-21T18:41:00.003-06:00

Yup. Semi epic. Well, I caught some fish...but since I forgot my net at home, I couldn't get any pictures or video since it was all about trying to get them close enough to remove the hook...and then release them immediately since there was no way I could get any pictures.

Some were average-sized, a couple were big (and snapped my 7x like always). Ah, the 7x - - flows were down and the fish were skittish. Seriously skittish. 5x freaked them out. 6x sort of tweaked their melons. 7 x...well, some fell for it.

And this one, I caught right after I replaced my line from the previous tank that broke me off. Fortunately, there were a couple of folks down river that let me borrow their net. The gentleman was also nice enough to be a hand model so I could get a clean shot of the 'bow (top image).

BDSP (olive version) strikes again.

Fishing in Two Parts

2010-08-18T18:37:00.005-06:00

Ouch. Too much work...too many responsibilities. This whole 'adult thing' is not what it's cracked up to be. And bills. Who the hell invented these things? As I've been slaving away at my projects to earn money to...pay bills (imagine that), it occurred to me that, if there weren't any bills, I wouldn't need to work.

Ergo, more time to fish, hang out with my son, or just sit on the couch and watch College Football while inappropriately scratching myself every ten minutes or so.

I know - those brief moments of brilliance are scary, aren't they?

So...trying to juggle tight deadlines, spending quality time with my son, while trying to get him ready for the new school year, I've come to the conclusion that I need a different clock - one with say, 36 hours in the day, instead of the old-fashioned 24 hours that is so yesterday.

And that new clock would also allow a little more wiggle-room for fishing. Which is totally cool, because I need my river time, otherwise, I'd end up on the front page of the Denver Post (read: not good).

But, since I am a loser and don't have a 36 hour clock, I need to make due with what I've got...and what I 'gots' were a few windows of fishing opportunity that just happened to present themselves over the past few weeks.

Actually, I lied. They didn't just 'present' themselves all conveniently like a stripper popping out of cake. No, I made them happen by bending the space/time continuum with my well-worn MEGA flat-head screwdriver (aka Hammish) that I use for everything but screwing (Yes, I realize how wrong that sounds. Freaks).

Originally designed for maintenance on military aircraft, it's a lunker and far too big for every-day-around-the-house screwing (stop it). So instead, I've focused it's powers for my own personal gain.

Impacted molar? Hammish is also an amateur DDS. Tristan stuck in the duct-work again? Step aside and let Hammish handle that. Bank tacked on another senseless fee? Hammish thrives on righting a wrong.

As you can see, there isn't much Hammish can't do - including the ability to bend the very fabric of our existence, when needed.

So a while back, before my life became measured in bechmarks, deadlines and outlandish requests, I had tied up some old-school Pheasant Tails and some Killer Bugs, and I was eager to try them out on the river...which I did, (thanks Hammish!).

Flows, however, were up that day, so the PTs didn't quite earn the Belle of the Ball label. The Killer Bugs, however, were able to pull a few fish, which makes sense, given the conditions. Ultimately, though, it was the worms that did all the work. And work they did.

There were a lot of big fish in the water that day, and I lost a lot of them. I'm starting to think that I might be 'big fish challenged' given how they always kick my ass. Especially this year - I've lost a lot of big fish in 2010.

I can stick 'em, I just can't seem to get them to net as of late.

The biggest of the day was a beautiful, active 25 inch-ish Rainbow. Solid. Healthy. And it was a clean, fair set, but after a little teasing and fighting, he broke me off.

A couple more in the 20 inch-ish range...also gone.

So anyway, the day was great - the fishing was awesome, and I got to play some mighty big fish. I'll take it.

______________

Now, every year, my son and I go camping - it's our special weekend to get away, ride, enjoy some 'fire food' and deal with free-range cattle that keep you up all night.

This is also the one time of year I get to go Hulk with my chain-saw on all of the dead-fall...which appeases the reptilian part of my gray-matter.

We also manage a little fishing (duh)...on the Taylor, which is my favorite stretch of water. Period.

The sheer number of fish in this section of the river never ceases to amaze me. And the sizes are off the charts. If there is a Heaven (or Hell, depending on your experience there) for me, this would be a possibility of what it might look like.

Minus the crowds, of course, and maybe throw in Kate Beckinsdale just for good measure.

When I die, I've requested that my ashes be thrown haphazardly around the place, so if you want to keep me from coming home with you, I'd suggest you keep your dog from rolling around in the dirt and clean your boots thoroughly after my ticket gets punched.

Now, for those that are familiar with this water, you know how tough it can be to nail some of those fish. 'Technical Water' is a term you hear quite a bit in regards to the Taylor.

While I have my own theories, the fact remains that it does seem to be tough to hook the fish there - so I helped Tristan with his cast, drift and set, and together, we managed about a handful of the slower 'D-student' fish in the C&R section.

After my son had had his fill, and his attention turned to digging in the bank on the side of the river, it was time for the old man to put the smack-down on some fatties.

And these larger fish aren't going to fall for a #18 Black Mamba or Zebra like their less-than-stellar smaller kin - oh noooo. In the past, I've had great luck with the BDSP on this water - but I was out, so those were not an option.

Enter Plan B, which should actually still be the original Plan A, since I normally go this route anyway on this river - but I went smaller. Much smaller. In the #24-#26 range.

Nothing fancy - just simple little thread midges in olive, red, white and black. And I scored pay dirt. While there were some 'normal' fish, in the 15-18 range, there were also three rather large fish - all well over 20 inches - that fell for my delectable mini-treats.

And, since I'm not one to break precedence, I decided to snap two of them off just to keep with this year's theme ("Hook Big Fish - Lose Big Fish 2010").

But I did manage to net a sweet brown.

Now, normally, I would be peeved to have lost the two larger mules - since coming to the Taylor is all about sticking the slabs - but earlier in the year, over the Memorial Day weekend, I hooked and landed (I shudder to think what price I'll have to pay for that miracle) a nice 28 inch-ish Bow, so my monster quest for 2010 has already been filled.

Anything above and beyond that, now, is just a little bonus thrown my way by the Fish Gods. Last year at this time, I was desperately running the two-minute drill to get my yearly 'white whale'...and barely eeked one through the uprights in the closing seconds of the 4th to win the game.

No worries like that this year - I can put this baby to sleep knowing I hit my quota back in May. Granted, babies wiggle and toss and make all sorts of noises when they're playing grab-ass with the Sandman...so another Taylor run isn't totally out of the question before the pass is closed.

But on the docket now, is an un-hurried trip to the Canyon in the next few days, followed by a return visit the following weekend when Bigerrfish makes his way out here.

In the meantime, I'm going to try and find a 36 hour clock on eBay.

Living a Dream...

2010-07-27T15:09:00.001-06:00

Nice - fourth time in the Canyon in less than three weeks? All that clean living must be paying off for me....

Actually, my schedule has had me close to home for a bit, and it just so happens that I've had a little extra time to hit the river.

And believe me, when I see an opportunity like that, I'm going to grab it and run like hell - just like Orpah with your Twinkies.

Now, I've been trying to get some leeway to go fish the Gunnison area, but it's looking like that won't happen, now, until the end of July-er-ish...or there about.

In the meantime, however, I can go back to some familiar haunts and torment the fish there - and we all know that they have it coming.

I think deep down inside their fishy little brains, they know it, too. Which is why they always have that look of 'fake astonishment' on their little fish faces when you get them to net - not unlike small kids when they know you've busted them.

"Hey now! Why'd you do that?" is what they appear to want to say, their eyes wide with disbelief. At least that's how I filter it through my distorted take on reality.

Or maybe I've just spent far too much time alone, on the water, with creatures that have no eye-lids.

Anyway, you know the drill - pack and stack on Thursday...blah blah blah...up at 3 am on Saturday, yeah, yeah...Alpha Male needs meat...so on and so forth.

Having used the literary version of the WABAC(forward?)-machine above, I'm now at the water's edge with far less writing than previous posts and, after saying farewell to Sherman and Peabody, ready to start re-living my own Improbable History segment.

And now that we're at the water's edge, the first order of business is to study the river:

"Water? Yup...its still there and, by the Gods! it's WET just like it's supposed to be..." Yeah, I'm a finely-tuned angling machine.

Once that tedious task is out of the way, its time to roll up the proverbial sleeves and get to work dishing out servings of punishment, Colorado-style (which comes with your choice of red or green chile).

Now, today, the flows were up quite a bit from last week, and the current of the water was moving a helluva lot faster - which had me a little bummed out. High, fast water means adjusting the fishing tactics and using heavier weights. Ugh.

So, I load up the line with some split-shot and drift my fly through a happy bunch o' fish and POW! right in the kisser! And I thought to myself, '...eh, maybe today won't be so bad after all...'

Wrong. That would be the last fish I netted for quite some time and by about 11 am, I was 1-9 and getting a little antsy.

Granted, I was sticking some pretty hefty fish - plus, they were really active and aggressive today, so when you did hook one, it was a serious fight: lots of running and jumping and quite a bit of name calling, crying and ruined mascara, to boot.

Losing a few I can handle....but 8? IN A ROW? Plus, a couple of them were really sweet fish which makes it all that more painful. They would either shake the hook after a tussle, snap the line, bend the hook (twice) or, in one instance, snapped my fly like it was made of plastic.

Also, as the morning ground on, the hits were harder to come by - I came roaring out of the gates early, but by chow time, things were moving at a snail's pace.

So I decided to take a break, eat some lunch, and then decided that if I went 1-10, I would raise the white flag, flee to the comforting shelter of my home and, once there, wallow in my suffocating misfortune while I plotted my revenge.

And maybe do some laundry. You know, multi-task...plotting/laundry....that sort of thing.

Now, for the 'final' attempt before my planned walk of shame, I decided to go old-school, and attached a #20 Pheasant Tail (a solid TMC 2487). I also decided to go Medieval and changed out to 4x. Yeah, I know....Medieval Old School....someone stop me before I hurt someone...

After that, the fish started to roll on in...nice fish. Big fish. Pissed off fish. That 4x was about as harsh a mistress as money can buy (not that I would know.)...and the Pheasant Tail? They were hitting that fly like it was a speed-bag.

And they only wanted the #20 - I lost one fly, and tied on a #18, and got skunked. Digging through my pack, I found two more #20s and, tying one on, was back in business in no time.

I managed to take a few from the deep runs, but where I really did some damage was in the flats above the Family Pool, where they were piled up like the skeletons in my closet.

I turned that section of river into my own personal fish farm and there was nothing they could do about it.

The icing on the cake was that the 'crowds' were not an issue - where I was, I saw 3 people all day. It was the kind of day that dreams are made of...provided you dream about fishing, and not about being chased by rabid clowns, having your teeth fall out or, God forbid, Carrot Top.

So, having narrowly averted a stint in the 'Cone of Shame', I can rest easy now. But that doesn't mean I still won't plot against them while doing my laundry.

...Let Slip the Dogs of War

2010-07-17T22:45:00.013-06:00

Ok, so my plans to make it out to fish the Gunni (or whatever other water Bigerrfish was going to subject me to) fell through for this weekend, so as a back-up plan, I set my sights on the Canyon.

Which isn't a bad thing, since I have some unfinished business up there with some aquatic life that I won't name....simply because I'm not a fish whisperer and privy to their identities, so labels such as Fish 1, Fish 2 and "...the bastard that snapped my line..." will have to do.

Let me recap: at the end of June I went in there and barely escaped with 3 netted fish after a long, hard day of fishing.

Last Friday (7/9), I went in there, all touchy-feely, and wound up getting smacked around like a Rodney King pinata at an LAPD birthday bash.

Going 0-5, in as many hours, was like waking up in the morning to find a naked Nancy Grace passed out next to me - the disgust and self-loathing was almost too much to bear.

It's obvious that the distractions of the past four months have softened my angling edge, and I've been fishing like a metro-sexual daintily sipping his double-latte-mocha-sheeple-frappuccino while browsing antiques, INSTEAD OF the aggressive, testosterone-laden Guerilla Angler that I truly am.

Plus I was slinging some...er, 'defective' 6x that snapped at the slightest sign of tension. Hell, it seemed like I could say one bad word and the line would cower and snap on it's own. Stoopid sissy line...

It's high-time I refocus and don the 'War Face' again - Sun Tzu and his battle philosophies be damned - we're talking a full-frontal assault, Ladies, and it ain't going to be pretty.

Back to the 5x? What took me so long? Jimmy Dean breakfast biscuit with extra, extra bacon? Alpha Male thrives on meat products. Throw in a super-sized pinch of cope to go with the coke, and some uber-aggressive tunes for the drive up, and I can literally feel the short-hairs growing as I drive.

Once on the water, I saw that the flows were down considerably from last week - and that's a good thing, since the fish tend to bunch up tighter in the deeper runs, making them easier to pick off.

On top of that, they were all active - feeding and moving within the columns. Yet another plus. [insert evil laughter here]

My first 3 casts all stuck a fish - sure, I lost two of them (and my flies) but that's a really good sign. Turns out, those first few hours on the river were beyond crazy - fish on, fish off, fish on, line snap, fish on, get him to net....lather, rinse, repeat.

Some were small (8 inches or so) and some were big. And some even made the big ones look small. And you can bet your sweet arse I tried for every last one of them.

I didn't get the video that I would have liked to have captured, for two reasons. The first is because I'm an idiot - apparently, I left the camera in record mode several times, and when I went to film the catch, I pushed the record button which actually paused it. Yeah, I be educated.

Secondly, with the summer crowds around, I feel a little stupid filming myself - especially when the other folks around me aren't having the same luck that I was. Blog or not, I don't want to look like an asshat if I can help it.

Anyway, around 11 am, the fishing slowed considerably, and by 1 pm, it ground to a complete stop. Oh, the fish were there, to be sure, but they weren't taking anything, which just made it frustrating as hell...and a good time to call it a day.

All of the fish I took today were caught on 1 of 3 flies - BDSP, the Black Mamba and a silly little worm that I threw together late last night while watching a rebroadcast of a Big Tenleven-Twelve(?) football game (when I should have been sleeping).

Although a really simple tie, it was deadly when I still had them in my box - #20 200R TMC hook, with tan 8.0 ultra thread and then wrapped with micro tubing. That's it. And it tore through them like black coffee and a bran muffin through your plumbing.

Not that I'm familiar with your plumbing and how it handles coffee and bran....eeew.

After that, the BDSP and Black Mamba did all of the heavy lifting - if the fish didn't take the scud, I switched out to the Mamba and scored a hit. When the Mamba stopped producing, I switched to the scud...

The two biggest trophies of the day were on the Black Mamba - one, put up a fight and ran me down the river before breaking my line (I got THAT on video), but the other, a nice 20+ fat, squishy rainbow wasn't so lucky.

Overall, it was a great day - I got my revenge through a vulgar display of superiority over aquatic denizens that run on instinct and have the brain the size of a pea. Which qualifies me for a management position.

Alpha Male is at peace.

Two States and Two Rivers

2010-07-08T10:20:00.022-06:00

Vacation time - it's always good to get away for some R&R. In my case, that means heading back to Utah to spend time with family and friends.

Good food, small-town parades, roller coasters and swimming are all on the menu, along with a large dose of fireworks for the 4th.

In other words, exactly what a summer vacation around the 4th of July should be like.

And this time around, I made some plans to hit the middle fork of the Provo river, which is the section between Jordanelle and Deer Creek reservoirs. For those that may not know, the Provo river is labeled Blue Ribbon water due to the amount and/or size of the fish in some sections.

Except for the 5th of July, which is when I went.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again - it's been a strange year for weather in the high country, and Utah is no exception. With a considerable amount of snow-pack still left on the Wasatch mountains, and with the reservoirs filled to capacity, the flows on most rivers are still up.

Including the Provo.

Along with high water levels, the clarity of the water left a lot to be desired. And for a sight-nymphing fool like myself, this is not good. Suffice it to say that the day ended in a shut-out.

Now I'm sure some of you streamer-heads out there (Josh) would have some decent luck, but for me and my sissy nymphing techniques, it was game-over by about 8 am.

Which is alright, because I had planned on hitting the Frying Pan on our way home, which just happened to be my son's birthday.

Since his Kid's Day outing back in June, Tristan has been begging me to take him to the river, but I've been hesitant due to the run-off.

Plus, I wanted to make sure I had him on some water that a) had a ton of fish b) was clear enough to see them and c) you didn't have to hike a mile to get to.

Enter the Frying Pan, where the water is clear and cold and there are more fish than you can shake a rod at. And, as I mentioned before, it was his birthday and wouldn't you know it, he happened to get a brand new pair of waders as a present! How convenient!

So we wound up on the river a little after 11 am, and found ourselves on a nice little bend just below the Toilet Bowl and flats. And in the water before us, were a lot of fish, which was perfect for a 7 year-old newbie.

While most of them were average in size, quite a few of them were pushing the 20+ mark - and for those of you that are familiar with the Pan, you know those fish are FAT and can bend a rod like nobody's business.

The twisted freak inside of me was hoping Tristan would stick one, while the rational father in me was praying he wouldn't. Sporting a 7.6 ft 4 wt and a reel made of plastic, the last thing I wanted was for him to hook a sub. Sort of.

His set-up: 7.6 ft 6x leader with about 8 inches of 7x tippet and one fly: the Black Mamba. I also gave him a larger, yellow foam indicator (but not too big), which is what I instructed him to watch.

At this point, I basically turned him loose and, standing a few feet away, I watched, as he side-cast his line up-river, and missed a take as his fly drifted down.

"Remember, when you see a fish move below, and your indicator goes down or stops, set the hook..."

After another missed set, I moved closer to him, and walked him through a cast, a mend, his drift, and a set on his first Frying Pan brown. And he went nuts.

It was then that I realized that I had left the net back at the truck - doah!

After that, I basically sat back and watched him fish - I tried not to yak at him too much, and in the process he missed a few opportunities.

One time, however, I saw his indicator drift down, curve and sink, and just as he pulled his line and said "I caught a fish!" and I said, 'no, you're on the rocks...' his line took off, pulled by a nasty, beast of a fish. Open mouth, insert foot.

While the rush of the set was on him, it also quickly turned to a bit of fear as this big brown damn near pulled the rod out of his little hands - I got over to him just in time to start re-adjusting the drag (which is useless on this reel) and trying to control the situation when the line snapped.

I know adults that haven't nailed a Frying Pan brick...and here's this 7 year-old, 30 minutes into his first taste, sticking a pig. Sweeeeet!

Anyway, we spent a little over an hour on the river, and then it was time to head back to Glenwood Springs for some sushi, swimming and whatever else he wanted to do on his birthday.

Sure, he snagged the trees quite a bit, and at times, his attention span wavered, but over-all he kicked it hard in the teeth, and walked away having scored some hits on the Pan.

I couldn't be more proud of him, and I know that this is only the beginning of his fly fishing adventures...and I plan to be there for quite a few of them, too.

Take it Like a Man

2010-06-26T13:22:00.043-06:00

I essentially dropped off the face of the earth for a bit - and aside from a quick trip to the Taylor C&R over the Memorial Day weekend and the Kid's Day event in mid June, my life has been devoid of fishing-related activities.

About the only thing keeping me sane is the memory of sticking and landing a fat, squishy 28 inch bow on the Taylor, along with a few other choice slabs.

But, like Marlon Brando riding a moped, that memory is only going to go so far before it falls apart...and folks, let me tell you something, it's coming apart faster than Rod Blagojevich's defense strategy.

In other words, I need to fish. STAT.

However, if there was ever a time to be mired up to my eyeballs in work and unable to wet a line, it has been the past few weeks - with weather that's been more unpredictable than the recent NCAA conference re-alignments and rivers raging harder than Mike "I'm a Man!" Gundy during his (now) infamous rant, I'd like to think that I haven't missed out on too much.

So on the first weekend that I've had free in a while, there was absolutely no question as to where I was headed - the Canyon.

Little dirty ponds full of stockers, Blue Gill and Bass are cool, but I'm a man! I'm 40 and I need some manly tail-water action. And that, my sticky little friends, is the catalyst to getting up at 3 am on a Saturday, even though I can't remember the last time I've had a full 6 hours of sleep.

Gear? Check. Breakfast biscuit with extra bacon? Check. Ice-cold coke and a new can o' dip? Damn straight.

When I first got to the water, I saw that the flows were down to about average for this time of year - a tad off-color, but nothing to worry about. And there were fish everywhere and some of them were in the large-ish, BBF category.

For the most part, they were in shallow water within 5-10 feet of the bank, in seams that we anglers live for. No fancy mending or creative drifting required, but do you think I could stick any of them? Hell no. And it wasn't for lack of trying or lousy presentations, either.

At one point, late in the morning, I had a group of fish (8 of the SOBs) bunched together within a run about 4 feet from where I was standing. I fished to them for what seemed like hours and hit nary a one. Nada. Zip. Zero.

You want to talk frustrating? Try it and see if a few choice words don't fly out of your mouth. It even got to the point where I was talking to them...pleading with them, and trying to coax them into feeding on what I was throwing their way.

But, like Eva during one of my caffeine-fueled rants, they chose to ignore me.

The really strange thing is, most of the fish I saw today were not actively feeding like one would expect - they were low and showing little to no signs of movement. Every once in a while you would see one move slightly and eat, but that was the exception rather than the rule.

Now, I wonder...the moon was big and we actually experienced a partial lunar eclipse around 5 am...coincidence? Perhaps...or maybe just a convenient excuse for me to cover up a fly fishing failure of EPIC proportions?

The three that I did see actively moving up and down in the columns I managed to stick - so the old man can still take a fish when they're showing signs of life, which is a relief. Had I been completely shut out, I would have been cranky as hell and feeling a bit insecure, since I know there's no little blue pill that can solve fishing problems.

Anyway, next up, is a well-earned vacation that should find me on the Provo and Frying Pan, with a possible trip out to Bigerrfish's neck of the woods for some potential hog rolling on the Gunni.

And rest assured, I'll be back in the Canyon within the next week as well, to dish out some payback...oh yes, I will have revenge...because I'm a man. I'm 40. And I can do that.

Kids Day 2010

2010-06-21T21:11:00.016-06:00

Every year, a group of fellas (known as the High Plains Drifters) put together an event that is specifically geared towards teaching kids all about the sport of fly fishing.

Actually, it's a little more than just educating the wee ones on throwing a fly - they also make it a point to teach them about river conservation, aquatic insects and their life cycles, knots and fly tying.

It's a fantastic clinic and one that I have been looking forward to for over a year now, and the fact that it was Father's Day weekend just made the event all that much more special.

For some time now, I've slowly been introducing my son to fly fishing - nothing too extreme, just a little taste here and there to get him familiar with it.

From occasional casting practice, to fly tying, at almost 7 years old, he's no stranger to the sport that consumes me. He's also been with me on the river a time or two, and has seen some fish action...

So having some familiarity with it all, my son had a lot of fun rotating through the individual stations with his small group - fly tying (San Juan Worms), fish identification (including where and how they live), and the aquatic bug presentation put on by a gentleman from the Denver Butterfly Pavilion.

And I have to admit, it was all extremely interesting to me, as well - including the talk by Landon Mayer, who brought along some videos and pictures of some rather impressive trout that were caught on streamers - which got the kids (and some adults, too) really pumped up.

After that, the kids all got together with Landon for a group photo.

Around lunch time, we all moved over to Lake Lehow for some hot dogs and chips, followed by the chance to put everything the kids had learned that morning into action.

By the time Tristan and I wrapped up the afternoon, he had hooked several decent trout (they loved the BDSP) in about the 12 inch range, 1 bass on a hopper pattern (he LOVED seeing him take it from the surface, followed by a nice fight) and more Bluegill than you can shake a stick at (30-40 on a simple #22 red midge pattern).

It was an absolutely great time for the both of us, and I want to thank the guys over at High Plains Drifters for a job well done - they don't have to do this, but they volunteer their time and money to help introduce younger folks to this sport, and they have my utmost respect and appreciation.

Lest We Forget...

2010-05-25T22:56:00.007-06:00

Repost from 5/09

My life moves forward - I go to work, I raise my son, and I spend time on the river, pursuing a hobby that provides me the comfort and rewards that only another angler can appreciate.

Devils Dogs - I salute YOU - Hit Hard, Hit Fast and Keep on Hitting, brothers.

A Sequel of Decay

2010-05-16T19:00:00.001-06:00

Spring time in the Rockies - it can get a little crazy and this year is no exception. If it hasn't been windy as hell, it's been snowing. And when it hasn't been snowing, it's been....rasnowing (thanks Outdooress!).

May? Feels more like March.

Actually, I think this year is sporting the same attitude as last year, and I'm a little worried that we'll jump from winter directly into summer, by-passing those wonderful, mild May days that seem like a long-lost memory at this point.

But the fishing has been good, so I guess I need to put my big-boy underwear on and quit my sniveling.

As usual, the night before a fishing trip is always full of activity in the misanthropic Keebler Elf tree that I call home. There is a lot of running around as I bag and stack my gear, pack my edibles for the next day, and make sure I've got all my bases covered.

With revely at 03:30, I was out of the rack and on the road by 3:45 - absorbing a massive jolt of 'WAKE THE F**K UP' compliments of ice-cold coke, a pinch of cope (slogan: it satisfies!), and Machine Head's The Blackening kicking the hell out of my cerebral cortex.

Arriving at my destination wide awake, and with my brain in the fetal position, I got geared up and wound my way to the water's edge just as it was getting light enough to see.

After several days of heavy snow and lots of rain, I was a little surprised at how low and clear the water was - aside from the trail being a little muddy, there was very little evidence of the past days storm.

I started the morning at the fence-line, and walked upriver, looking for some easy targets and, not finding any, I decided to drift my line through a convenient seam just for grins.

And I nailed one. A nice one, too. And then he popped the hook. Ah well...time to move upriver to some deeper water.

Throughout the morning, it was a see-saw battle between the fish and my 7x - hit one, and the line would snap. Hit another...and I would get him to net. Stick one more and he would pop the hook. It basically went on like this for most of the morning, and I eventually wound up losing all 10 of the 'experimental' flies that I had tied the night before.

Which reminds me - since I left so many of those up on the river, I'm going to be posting that pattern soon, since someone is bound to find one in the mouth of a fish anyway.

Up until about 11 in the morning, the water was low and clear. By noon, it was becoming a little discolored, and by 1 pm, it had risen quite a bit and was as thick as soup. No kidding - there was so much junk floating in the water, it was impossible to fish.

Aside from not being able to see anything, one drift and the line, split-shot and fly were wrapped in thick green moss and other assorted goodies. Essentially the day was over by early afternoon.

Which wasn't a bad thing - I was feeling a bit tired, having only had a few hours of sleep - so getting home a little early was a bonus. And going home early with a stinky net is even better.

Black Mamba

2010-05-05T11:57:00.020-06:00

In any subject, there are a few known names that, with the simple utterance of opinion, can change the landscape of their respective industry. In fly fishing, geographically speaking, Charlie Craven and Pat Dorsey are two that come to mind out here in Colorado.

Their names will forever grace the list of who's who in Fly Fishing lore, and rightly so. They've contributed much to the sport and continue to carry the banner for the rest of us river urchins.

My name, on the other hand, seems destined to be attached to a rambling manifesto, written in seclusion at a cabin deep in the Montana wilderness...or so the voices are telling me.

Like the old saying, 'put a bunch of monkeys in front of a typewriter, and eventually they'll write a novel' the same holds true for me: put me in front of a vise and eventually I'll come up with something useful.

And nowadays, thanks to the eggheads over at DARPA and their ingenious use of networks, it's easy to share that 'usefulness' with other like-minded individuals - as opposed to the 'not so useful":

"Hey guys! Here's a fly that absolutely sucks! Enjoy!"

Now raise your hand if that would be something you'd be interested in. I didn't think so.

So, in the spirit of playing nicely with others, here's my little contribution to the sport via modern technology. No, it probably won't change the world of fly fishing as we know it, but if it manages to work for just one or two of you out there, then I've done my part by paying it forward.

Sure, it's nothing to write home about and, at first glance, it reminds you of any number of other flies - it's what I refer to as the 'tastes like chicken' syndrome.

Midges are a dime a dozen in our business - and throughout the years, there have been all sorts of variations - and each one captures a little essence of reality that triggers a response from the fish. As a result, a lot of the flies can (and do) show some familiarity between them.

And who's to say that a little familiarity between consenting flies is wrong? Not me, especially when I've been hitting the sauce. Or when a fly can pack a wallop like this one seems to do.

Ironically, this one started out looking a bit different than what it is now - the real larvae that I based this pattern on is actually light-green in color and is as scrawny as a runway model.

I was really proud of that initial tie, but just for grins, I decided to whip up a few in white. And I'm glad I did, since the white was the clear winner - both with Jerry (who graciously volunteered to test drive the original pattern) and myself.

After several mad-scientist-like tweaking sessions in the wee hours of the night, I finally settled on the pattern that you see here. And it works.

But more than that, it's simple, which for me is the selling point of any pattern. As I've stated before, I have the attention span of a circus monkey. Couple that with my caveman-like fear of anything too fancy on a fly, and you can pretty much guess my preference for tying: if I can't hammer out a dozen in about 10 minutes, I'm not interested.

And finally, the name. Sure I could continue to call it the Thing, or Experimental Fly...but something this good deserves a name. Something cool that conveys it's lethality...like Black Mamba.

For those not familiar with the Mamba, it's an African snake and going by the name, if you were to assume it's black, you'd be wrong, my sticky little friends. The only black on the snake is inside the mouth, which is the most dangerous part.

Born in Colorado, and successfully tested on the waters of the famed Cheesman Canyon, I hope it brings as many fish to your net, as it has for me and my friends so far (just use something stronger than 7x if possible).

Hook: #18 Tiemco 2487

Thread: 8/0 Black UNI-Thread and 8/0 White UNI-Thread
Thorax: Fine White dubbing
Wing Case: 4 Pheasant Tail Fibers

Bead: 1/16th Tungsten (Black or Gold)

My apologies for the crappy screen-caps - I don't own a digital camera that takes macro photos - so I basically go the video route and take caps from that. If anybody has some suggestions for a digital camera that takes good macro shots, let me know!

Step 1

Well, it looks like I've done the hard part for you - but in case you haven't been paying attention, start by putting the bead on the hook, and wrapping your black thread to the back of the bend.

Once there, give the thread a few spins around the hook to build up a nice little round nub - not too big, but big enough to give 'baby some back'.

Once you've got that, loosely wrap your thread back to the bead and tie if off. Cut your thread and get your white spool ready.

Step 2

Attach your white thread like you normally do, and after getting it secured and the tag end clipped off, take some head cement and wet the black thread.

Now, take your white thread and loosely wrap it back to the 'nub' and, once there, start building your first segmentation, making it slightly smaller than the initial black.

Once you're done with that, move up the hook slightly, allowing some of the underlying black thread to show through, and start the second segment...and so on, until you reach the top, about a 1/4 from the bead, making each segment slightly larger than the previous. On a size 20, you should come out with 4 segments.

Step 3

With your grubby little digits, go ahead and fetch about 4 fibers from your pheasant tail and tie them onto the hook...and then take a moment to watch the episode of Spongebob that your child is watching on TV - go to step 4 when finished.

Step 4

Next, take a small amount of fine white dubbing, and build the thorax of your fly. Once you've wrapped it, go back over it with your thread a few times which a) gives it a nice little profile and b) holds it in place and keeps it from swelling up like a balloon when it gets saturated.

Step 5

Pull the pheasant tail fibers over the top, and secure them down. Clip the ends and whip finish this one off.

Now that's a painless tie, is it not? Your creepy Uncle Ron would not steer you wrong...

Step 6

Coat the entire fly with a generous layer of head cement - body, thorax, wing case...get it all nice and soggy. Hell, coat yourself, too, if you're of a mind. Why not?

Once it's soaked in really good, use a small piece of paper towel, or the corner of Eva's favorite shirt, and 'squeeze' the fly to get the excess out.

Now, take it out of the vise and let it dry.

Step 7

Stop putzing around and take that thing out and catch some damn fish, already!

And send me any pics you get of a fish you caught with this fly so's I can post it up!

Stone the Crow

2010-05-01T23:05:00.051-06:00

The 1st of May - known as May Day and traditionally associated with labor relations and Socialist ideals. Who cares, I'm going fishing.

After my last outing (which I never got around to posting), I was thinking of heading to the Frying Pan, or even the Taylor river, for a weekend away and some sub hunting, since the only fish I've been pulling lately have been small.

But given the wacky Spring weather that we experience here along the front range of the Rockies, those plans were quickly changed.

From clear, blue skies and temps in the high 70's to golf-ball sized hail, tornadoes, rain/sleet/snow/a visit from Joe Biden in the space of a couple of hours. Yeah, it can get ugly real quick at this time of year.

With the high passes looking to get their share of grief (which they did), I made a game-time decision to stay close to home and, once again, found myself on familiar waters.

As it turned out, the Platte was itching for a fight, and I was more than willing to oblige.

Like a bug to a zapper, I was drawn to the same spot that I've been on since January - and like a bug, I got smoked. The night before, I had changed out to 7x, anticipating the lower flows and sketchy fish - and by mid-morning I was a pathetic 3-9 in the netting department.

After several hours of fishing, the angles, rocks and fish all combined to methodically beat my ass into a prone position. I finally decided to change out my line to 5x, and that only helped the Platte to pitch a shut-out.

So, I took a lunch break to regroup - changed my line back to 7x and finally decided that I had had enough. For the past four months, I've been hell-bent on trying to make my fishing as tough as possible - I had paid my dues and then some, and now I just wanted to fish.

After an hour's break, I moved up-river to an area that provided 'normal' fishing, and within the space of ten minutes, I had landed two nice fish - a harbinger of the 'Grade A' beat-down I was about to level on the Canyon.

A lot of my success had to do with the fly I was using...it had produced all morning under brutal conditions on the rock...but unleashed here, in some decent water, it was downright deadly.

But also, after months of a self-imposed exile between two boulders, fighting the impossible drifts, angles and depths, fishing on straight seams was almost effortless.

I'm convinced that all of those days spent on that uncaring rock were more valuable than all of the fishing trips of the past few years, combined - no amount of magazines, books, bullshit sessions or hired guns could have taught me what I've learned there.

As a result, I was nailing obscene numbers - some popped off the hook, some snapped my line, while the unfortunate ones found their way into my net. Some were big, some were small and others were just right - but it didn't matter, since it was turning out to be a day that was off the charts. The gloves were off, and it felt good to kick some ass.

After a rough three weeks, it was nice to relieve the frustration by dropping the hammer on some fish - most of the time, I didn't even bother with video - I was in the moment and enjoying the sport, and wound up with the single greatest day of fishing I've had in recent memory.

A few times, when it was convenient, I did pull out the camera, but as backwards as it may sound, the largest fish I caught, I didn't film. In the 21 inch range, he put up one helluva fight - and when I finally managed to get him to net, I found myself out in the water, and my camera was on shore, next to my backpack. Without hesitation, I released him.

For the most part capturing video or thinking about this blog were not at the forefront of my mind this time around. Actually, there wasn't much going on in my head - I had tuned out work, life...everything. For about 8 hours Saturday I had escaped into a place that I sorely needed to be.

It was just me, the river, and the fish. And it was epic.

No Trophies for 2nd Place

2010-04-03T22:41:00.075-06:00

Ah, the stars are shining down on me! Another day on the water? Pinch me, I must be dreaming.

I'm kidding, of course. Along with strong anti-social behaviors, I'm uncomfortable with close, physical contact.

And clowns. Clowns freak me out. So if you're a clown, who is into large social gatherings and has a yen for getting all 'pinchy' and such, you may want to avoid me, since my moral compass has no rule against clown thrashing.

Social deficiencies not withstanding, the opportunity to wet a line presented itself yet again, and the aggressive, reptilian part of my brain jumped all over that like Homo habilis on a termite mound.

As usual, by Friday night I was climbing the walls with excitement and nervous energy - sleep was tough to come by and I was out of the rack before the alarm went off at 3:30.

Some of the excitement had to do with having a new fly to try out - a simple little thing that I stitched together under the silent blanket of midnight (also known as the Witching Hour).

I guess in European folklore, it was believed that evil beings (like Nancy Pelosi) were most active at this time, since black magic was strongest around the midnight hour.

Having been in a 'marriage' for 7 years, I can say with confidence that evil only slept between 10 pm and 6 am, and that it's powers of pain and punishment were at their peak during the daylight hours. Silly Europeans.

But I digress...

Earlier in the week I had been skimming some photos of aquatic insects online, and came across one that piqued my interest, so this was an attempt to replicate that. Or, at the very least, try to come close.

That's me in a nutshell - while the other kids are ooo'ing and ahhhh'ing over pictures of Megan Fox, I'm checking out bugs online. A fine use of technology which proves that my priorities are seriously out of whack...

As it turned out, the fly worked like a charm - I had tied two versions - chartreuse and white in sizes #22 and #24, and while both got the job done, the white was the clear winner this day. If both continue to produce through Autumn, I'll make them a permanent addition to my box.

Zebras and BDSPs were also productive for me today - and my friend Jerry, who is a BDSP convert, managed this massive pig on that fly...

Jerry had a good day, too, hooking quite a few, but suffered from the same 'netting handicap' that I was infected with. Some of the flies that he used with success were the Yong's Special, the experimental fly I mentioned above, and the BDSP.

And let's talk about 'today' shall we? After my last two outings, I was due for some humility. However, Fate, being the fickle feline that she is, decided humility would not be quite as deserving as a ferocious kick to the stones would be.

12 fish hooked.

2 netted.

Two of the SMALLEST fish netted, that is. Basically I got the ever-popular "You Suck! But Thanks for Playing!" consolation prize. Wah, wah waaaaaah.

Oh, and Fate will be stopping by later tonight, to kick my dog, too, so if you need me to pass along any messages, feel free to email me and I'll make sure she gets them.

For what it's worth, all the fish were hooked from the same run - we'll call this Creepy Uncle Ron's OCD Fly Fishing Lesson #249 - Working that Hole Like a Person in need of an Intervention.

Stop it, you gutter-brains.

I was running one fly and no indicator, in some tough, deep water, and before the sun lit the canyon, it was blind-fishing at its most intense. I drew first blood, but two hours in I was 0-4, with one of those being a beast of a fish - when I set my hook, it damn near bent my pole in half as it bolted for the rock on my left.

At least I think it was a fish. For all I knew, it could have been Michael Phelps.

With the water as dark as it was, and never coming close to the surface, I didn't get a good look at what was on the end of my line. But it was big, and it didn't appear to be too happy that I had ruined it's morning.

Imagine that - this is supposed to be about me, and here it is getting it's panties in a bunch because I stuck a hook in it.

Once parked under the boulder, I couldn't move it to save my life - I actually thought my line had come loose and that my hook was caught on the rock.

But after a few minutes (and quite a bit of cautious tugging on my part) it made a run back towards the middle of the river, before turning and going back to the rock - and during that time I was helpless to do anything and was simply along for the ride - which also included a snapped line at no extra charge, by the way.

With perks like that, you bet your sweet ass I'll be a loyal customer for life...

Most of the others simply shook themselves free - it was almost as if I had tied all my flies on Bendaroos instead of hooks. Which I wouldn't, really, since my son would be furious.

Tristan: "Dad! Where's all my Bendaroos?"
Me: "Um....hey! I've got a great idea! Let's go see a movie!"
Tristan: "DAD!"

But, I can't complain - I was out on the water, and I got to play quite a few nice fish, which is more than some folks. As mom would say "Ron, remember, there are anglers in Africa that don't get ANY fish..."

Good words to live by, mom.

Angling Antithesis

2010-03-18T22:10:00.003-06:00

Wow, I got lucky. No, not like that...I'm talking about fishing. As in, I've been able to get out on the water twice this month.

And although I'm not one to stare a gift-horse in the mouth (unless said horse gives the appearance of being able to sing in a disturbing fashion*), I can't help but wonder what price I'm destined to pay for this miraculous gift...

First born? The chewed-up remnants of my soul? Having to sit through a Dane Cook special?

*And let me add that, while I find 'talking animals' seductively freaky, puppets are in a class unto themselves - and this video is no exception.

My schedule, as of late, has cooled down some, and I've managed to slip into a nice holding pattern, which suites me just fine, since I've got a laundry list of items that still needs doing.

And at the top o' that list, is getting my rod(s) repaired. Which I've been procrastinating on, because...let's be honest here, I'm an idiot.

Since I've managed to be stupid and haven't sent the broken ones in yet, I guess I'll just have to pony up for a new stick. And for those of you keeping track, that's two equine references thus far. I kick ass!

Good thing I know people...as in, folks that sell fly fishing stuff. Granted, it's probably not as beneficial as knowing someone that's in, say...the mafia, but it'll have to do for now, being that I'm in the market for a rod, not a pair of 'concrete shoes'.

Sporting 9-feet of TFO fast-action equalization (thanks M!), I was more than ready for a day of poking chubbies, come rain, sleet, snow or arterial spray. Well, maybe not the snow, since the roads can get treacherous in those conditions.

While I'm not one for checking flows or fishing reports (since I suck regardless of the conditions) I do check the weather, as this will tell me what kind of food I should pack (bet you've never heard THAT before).

And taking a peek at the forecast, it was looking fairly promising...until the weekend. Those darn Amish did it to me again.

After a less-than-stellar winter, that saw limited time on the water, I'm looking at that forecast and salivating like a stray in a butcher shop. What to do? Enjoy a day of spring-like temps, or wait and hit the river in cooler conditions?

I hate making decisions....so instead, I decided to let Fate determine my course of action - a vulgar display of decision-making power, as demonstrated by me. Yea, me!

My relationship with Fate has been a love/hate sort of deal...okay, mostly hate. Especially when she's been hitting the sauce - then it gets really ugly.

But this time around, she was purring like a kitten and much kinder to me than usual, and she got me to the water on a spectacular day...which, again, makes me suspicious as hell and a little uneasy.

While the temps were going to be pushing close to 70 along the front range, early morning in the canyon was brutally cold. All of my gear wound up with a generous coat of hoar frost - my line and guides were practically useless due to the ice build-up, and the felt-inserts on my boots kept freezing to the rock I was standing on.

Before the sun rose, it was more about 'survival' than actually fishing. I only managed one hook-up that first hour, and thanks to frozen gloves, frigid lines and ice on the rock that I was using as a perch, it turned into a comedy of errors and my catch eventually shook the hook to freedom.

After some hot cider (ahhhh!) and a little timeout to get the circulation going, I was ready to hit it just as the sun was lighting the canyon. Actually, I hit it out of the park.

Smashed a nice-sized 'bow on a Zebra, lost another when the knot on my fly came undone (knot-tying FAIL) , popped a hook on another...

...and then, somewhere around noon-ish, the bugaloos were swarming and the smaller fish went ape-shit. They were all over - sipping from the top, taking from below and hammering the goods in the middle. It was a feeding frenzy that continued, on and off, for the better part of two hours.

Looking back on it now, I wish I would have stopped to get some footage...it was quite the sight.

Instead, I pulled most of my weight, greased up a #26 RS2 (tan) and proceeded to pick them off, one by one. They were all in the 10-14 inch range, so I didn't even bother with the net (or camera) - just stripped the line in, popped the hook, and cast again.

Lather, rinse, repeat. It was a kick in the pants, since the little fellas really think they're tough and fight like hell to get away - unadulterated entertainment, plain and simple.

After that, I rolled a couple more decent-sized fish, and then decided to call it a day. The Fish Gods saw fit to bless me with an epic outing, so there's no sense in being overly greedy.

This time out I didn't lose any fish to the rocks on either side of me...came close one time with a pissy little brown, but I eventually won out. So take THAT you stoopid over-achieving pebbles...

I also managed to foul-hook two fish - which I don't count. However, I figure that's not too bad considering that this was my first full day of fishing sans an indicator. I'm trying to wean myself off of using them, and simply trusting in the power of the 'dark arts' to guide my fishing.

Another note-worthy piece - I went a whole day with some heavy action and never snapped my line. Which tweaks my melon, since I was throwing 7x instead of my usual 5x. That stuff actually held up to the rocks and punishment better than the heavier line. Go figure.

So...two trips in March, one was great, with the other being exceptional. A little tough to follow up those two performances, unless I can somehow manage to incorporate a singing horse and some puppets into the next outing.

Kicking Butt and Breaking Things

2010-03-07T16:02:00.004-07:00

I managed to dodge a bullet - much to the disappointment of a lot of vultures...er, people.

Whatever I had, didn't kill me and I wound up convalescing on the road, which, as we all know, is the ideal place to get one's health in order....which may explain why I'm still trying to shake this crud.

When all was said and done, I found myself with a wafer-thin opportunity to fish...and then it SNOWED FOR THREE DAYS and completely erased any chances that I had of hitting the river.

And that, kids, is unjust and inhumane - plain and simple.

Now I could point the finger at any number of people for this, but will instead, blame the Amish on my misfortune (since the odds are in my favor that they'll never see this).

Which is good, since I'm not sure how I would handle being on the receiving end of a Mennonite beat-down...

"Brother Angler, thou hast gone too far! Prepare thy buttocks for a righteous kicking...just as soon as we finish raising this barn."

Jump forward a week or so, and the stars have aligned: Saturday's forecast was showing sunny, dry and 55 degrees, and my schedule was WFO. If ever there was a time to squeal like a little school girl, this would be it.

But I refrained, being that I'm a guy.

Instead, I opted to pee myself, while leaving little concentric circles on the carpet, like an over-excited puppy, as I danced around in joy at the prospect of hitting the water in some mighty fine weather.

By early Friday night, my bags were packed and my gear was stacked. The only thing standing between me and the river's embrace was about 5 hours of sleep. Stoopid need for sleep...

Funny, it takes an act of divine proportions to drag my rusty frame out of bed on a morning I have to work. Not so on fishing days - alarm goes off, and I'm out of the rack before I'm fully awake, dragging the sandman, kicking and screaming, down the hall.

Its all about priorities, I guess.

For once I actually timed it right on the money - I got to the water's edge just as it got light enough to see. I scoped out the Family Pool first, but didn't see a whole lot of action to be had there, so moved on up to the Ice Box.

And, as usual, there were fish a-plenty. Throughout the day, I hooked and played quite a few - several which I lost...one to the rock and three more to popped hooks and snapped tippet. The weather was spectacular, and the fishing was just as good.

I actually managed to net half-a-dozen nice fish...and wouldn't you know it, my video camera decided it didn't want to play anymore somewhere between the 2nd and 3rd fish.

So much for that - it's been a good little camera, and it's seen it's share of abuse. It's endured ridicule by it's older twin 'brothers', the SONYs, and my son and his friends as they set out to capture proof of the afterlife. It's been dropped, frozen, baked and rolled over (long story).

I think it's safe to say that I got my money's worth from it, especially being that it was a freebie from a client to begin with.

Oh, and the trail of broken items doesn't end there, either. Oh no...

There had been a fish that I had watched all day - parked further out in the river, and riding the sandy bottom tight. From time to time I would throw a few casts his way, just on the off-chance I could get him to go for it.

Finally, late in the day, as the canyon was moving into shadows, I tossed my line his way. Once. Twice. And on the third try, I set him. He wasn't freakishly large, but he wasn't small, either - I'd say average for this spot, which is in the 20 inch range. A nice fish, and even more impressive when he came out of the water.

And as he did, I stripped the excess line, and brought my pole back, like I've done countless times before....only this time, I heard a loud CRACK!

WTF? My rod simply snapped. Broke. In two. I just sat there and stared at the damn thing, as the top half slid down the line and into the water. So I started hauling by hand...basically horsing the fish in, until the tippet gave out and cut the fish loose.

As great as the fishing had been, it was a real buzz-kill to prematurely end the day like this.

I wish I could say that my rod broke as I grappled with a beast of a fish - a record-sized cut-bow that was fighting like hell to get away, while I tirelessly struggled to get him to net. But I can't.

But, it was all worth it - I can always use an excuse to buy a new video camera and the folks over at TFO will be more than happy to help me out on the rod-end of things. Yeah, in terms of fishing days, they don't get much better than this after a long winter.

But that doesn't mean I still can't blame the Amish for the camera and rod...

Windy City Tangent

2010-02-18T00:16:00.013-07:00

Quick - when I say Chicago, what comes to mind? Great food, pro sports teams, Capone. Fly fishing.

Fly fishing?

Earlier this week, it was by accident that I happened to see an Orvis shop, tucked away on a small side street, about a half a block from my hotel on the Magnificent Mile - and it made me laugh.

An Orvis shop in the middle of downtown Chicago? To me, that makes about as much sense as the guys from Motley Crue spear-heading the local D.A.R.E campaign. But then again, I'm trying to use common sense.

The point I'm trying to make is, when one thinks of fly fishing, Illinois is not the first place that comes to mind, let alone Chicago - Great Lakes not withstanding.

But therein lies the crux - Orvis tries to appeal to all manner of buying clout, (emphasis on 'buying clout') not just the angler, and that's why you'll find their shops nestled among other major retail names, like Saks Fifth Avenue, Disney and Nordstom.

Which is another story in and of itself....

Anyway, I'm always quick to throw a few jabs in Orvis' direction, mainly because of the prevailing attitude that seems to be the norm in their shops - and after visiting stores in 9 different states...the trend is anything but coincidence.

As a side note, two of the worst have been the shop in Scottsdale, AZ and the one here, in Englewood, CO. In particular, the Englewood location has really set the standard - the first time I entered that shop, I was 'greeted' with a sharp "Do you need something?"

With attitudes like that, they're just begging to be messed with - which is what keeps me going back yet never spending a dime. Ha!

This time, however, I chanced upon David, who was cordial and inviting - a far cry from past experiences. With no preconceived notions (that were outwardly visible, anyway) we talked, as fellow anglers, and I wound up actually enjoying my brief visit.

And he also schooled me on the 'lack of fly fishing' in the great state of Illinois.

That's right - apparently there's some killer fly fishing to be had in the state, and from what I saw in the pictures, I wouldn't mind having a little taste if the opportunity ever presents itself.

David also runs his own blog, The Chicago Trout Bum, which I need to peruse a little closer when time permits.

So a huge thanks to David, for showing me the error of my ways, in that not all Orvis shops are staffed with uptight, elitist nubs and that there is some quality fishing in Illinois.

Wow...I really need to get out and fish....

Highway to Hell

2010-02-05T18:16:00.026-07:00

So another opportunity presented itself to hit the river....well, actually, it didn't really present itself. I sort of made it happen. Alright, I forced it to happen. Even though I should have stayed home, snuggled up to my better half - who, by the way, used some common sense and decided to sit this one out.

Me? Nah....I'm about as thick as they come. For starters, I'd spent the week battling a nasty cold that decided to take up residence in my lungs, and I can say with a fair amount of certainty, that I'll probably be having a date with bronchitis sometime soon. On the plus side, it's far better than getting hooked up with her ugly sister, pneumonia, who's about as nasty and skanky as they get.

Throw in a week of 11+ hour work days, mix in a steaming pile of less than desirable sleep...blend it all together, and it basically comes down to deciding which suit I'd like to be buried in.

But I have some unfinished business on the water, and it's not that I need to go, I have to go, and I am really fortunate to have a wonderful woman that understands. Sort of.

It's been too long since I've had a stellar day out on the river, and I'm going to have one, even if I have to take it by force, Reaper be damned. If I can kick some major ass, then I'll drive myself into the bowels of hell when I've finished, and sweat out eternity with a smile on my face.

So, it was up early and on the road...which was really foggy, and put a damper on my exhibition of speed and unsafe driving habits. Hey, I'm an adrenaline junkie, what can I say?

On the way up, I passed a truck that was pulled off to the side of the road - hello! potty break. Anyway, this same truck pulled in to the parking lot about ten minutes after I did. As we were gearing up, the other guy said to me "That piss break cost me pole position..."

HA! True enough. I was the first one at the lot that morning, and only managed to pull it off because coffee has no evil grip on my morning routine. Instead, I drink coke...and wear adult diapers. No, not really. I'll just piss myself if I have to go that bad when driving to the river.

Anyway, turns out, Jim (if memory serves me well), is a great guy. We talked on the walk into the canyon and, Jim....if you happen to see this, I hope you had a stellar day on the water. I'm sure our paths will cross again - I've seen your truck up there countless times, and now I have a face and a name to put to it. A fellow junkie....gotta love it.

I started off at the Family Pool - which was low and slow. But as usual, there was one monster parked in the usual deep seam - which I managed to spook about three casts in. Damn.

After that, I located a smaller shadow just behind where the pig had been, and started tossing my San Juan his way. After a few turns I managed to hook him...and it turned out to be a sucker. Ugly fish, those suckers, and I don't like how their skin feels - gray and rough. Gives me the heebie jeebies.

With that I decided to move up to the Ice Box - I'm sure there were more fish in the Family Pool, but I was craving some big game action, and the Ice Box did not disappoint.

I immediately spotted a big fish....maybe 22 inches or so, in about 2 feet of water. He was down low and not showing a whole lot of activity - plus, he was in a funky drift that, had I been on the opposite bank, would have been easier to hit. Being the idiot that I am, however, and a slave to my primitive instincts, I dialed up the OCD to eleven and spent the next 3-4 hours trying to hook him.

You know, I do enjoy the company on the river, but it's this type of mental disorder that drives people I fish with insane - which is why I fish solo for the most part. Guilt-free fishing.

Back to the fish: I have to admit, that he won out. He broke me. Between the angle of my cast, my precarious position on the rock, and the fact that I could no longer feel my legs, I gave in. But let it not be said that I didn't try. Damn, did I try.

So after a quick bite, and the patching up of my pride, I went over to the same rock that I was on the last time out, and let me tell you something, there were some big fish in there. Not just one or two piggies....but upwards of 10-15 big fish. Plus a lot of 'smaller' fish....in the 15-20 range.

But it was the big ones that made my jaw drop - seriously. While most of them were in the 20-25 inch range (I am not kidding here....I'm being serious) there was one that was uber big. Initially, I thought he was a large rock - until it moved.

Given the depth of the water, and his relative size, I would have to guesstimate...that he would have given the state record a good run for it's money, if not outright beating it.

Call me crazy....tell me I am exaggerating....I don't care. I was there. I saw him. I watched him. And I damn near soiled my britches when the sun lit the water, and the ripples smoothed out. I watched this behemoth, come up in the column and engulf something in his huge maw, and then settle back down again.

The one fish that I did net, was parked behind this freak - and it wasn't anything to sneeze at. But compared to this monstrosity, it looked like a wee young lass. All of the fish is this section looked small compared to this.....freak.

A lot of folks laugh when you tell them that there are 30+ inch fish in this river. Stop into Flies and Lies and take a look at the pictures they have there. Last July I watched (and tried to snag) a 30+ inch fish in the lower section.

Two years ago, with the help of Eva on a rock above me, I managed to hit a 35 inch dinosaur near Deckers.

I've fished steelhead many times while living in the PNW....I've seen big fish. I've seen and caught my share of big tail-water trout....and this was the biggest fish I've ever seen that wasn't ocean/lake run.

So anyway...from this point forward, I'm calling this section of the Ice Box (above), the Hog Trough II.

Ok...so back to this particular spot - the water is deep and fast and you have to fish between two massive boulders, while standing on top of another. The drift itself can be a bit tough - not impossible, but after my last outing, I have it figured out for now (until the flows increase).

Naturally, I'm going for the big guy - why not? If not him, then any of the other fish hanging around him will do...

Right out of the gates I set one....not huge, but nice and fat, and probably in the 18 inch range. And feisty. Trying to keep him from the rocks on either side, while getting him close enough to 'attempt' to net is tricky. Perched on top of a boulder, it's a real feat to be able to lean down with the net, far enough, to get them bagged while trying to hold your pole and keep your balance without falling into the water yourself.

This particular fish - three times I had him close enough to net, and every time I tried to, he powered away from me. I had three chances to score...and I missed all three, and finally, my line gave out after the beating it took against the rocks, not to mention being stretched and jolted. Grrrrr!

Second one - hooked him, and he bolted, right around the rock to my left and downstream. No chances to get him in, as the rock chowed through my leader like Oprah at the Buffet Line (below).

Third one - stayed in the relative area (like the first one), coming out of the water, once. Twice. Three times. And my heart started racing - he was BIG, fat, and pissed. And he slapped the water hard each time.

After his aerial display, he did manage to get under the rock on the left. But, I played it safe and let him sit and idle while keeping some slight tension on the line. Plus, having just had to change out my leader and tippet, I knew I had some breathing room.

So I waited - every once in a while I would apply a little more pressure, gently trying to coax him out from under the rock - the entire time nervously eyeballing my leader as it pulled against the boulder....striking silent deals with the Devil and bartering what little bit of my soul I have left.

Finally, he tired out, and I was able to gently pull him from under the rock...and he swam towards me, where I was able to lay on my stomach and get him to net. Damn. That was a rush.

And for those of you with a need to know - all fish were caught on Zebras.

The last one I managed to 'almost' snag, I basically pulled the hook out of his mouth - actually, I didn't even know he had taken my fly - my line was drifting close to the rock on my left, and I pulled my line out to recast, when I felt a 'set' and saw a flash of silver under the water, just as my fly popped out and he swam away.

So not a bad February day overall.

I've long since passed the point of finesse and the finer art of fly fishing to challenging myself with the hard scores - larger fish, deep water, one fly and an indicator that is practically useless, other than to allow me to see where my line is in the water.

I don't always walk away with the big ones, and sometimes, like yesterday, I spend hours and have nothing to show for it.

But when it does all come together, for me, there's no greater feeling in the world, unlike this nasty virus and cough that is slowly beating me into the fetal position.

Ah well...it was worth it.

Long, Cold Winter

2010-01-23T21:29:00.028-07:00

Well, 2009 came and went, and it was filled with far less fishing than I had originally anticipated. Of course, I also didn't plan on the gargantuan workload that was about to bury me, either. So much for all of my well-laid plans.

When I finally had my plate cleared, and I was free to throw a line - the weather conveniently turned nasty. It's enough to make me want to lash out during the post-game interview and make a complete ass-hat out of myself.

Which is a problem, being that I'm not in a position where I conduct any post-game interviews, real or imagined.

So I'm left with no choice but to risk my life on icy, mountain roads, since I'm a sicko and in serious need of a 12-step program. Plus, as I mentioned earlier, 2009 turned out to be an uber jerk, and I wanted to get one last hurrah in before 2010 started kicking me around like the lone conservative on Real Time with Bill Maher.

I did manage to make it up one day - and a good ballpark figure for the early morning temps would be....oh, I don't know....100 below zero. Give or take a few degrees. I think I would have felt warmer (and had better luck) throwing my line on the dark side of the moon (which is also a GREAT album).

Lunar escapes aside, I was in the canyon. And it was brutally cold. And the fishing was slow. I hooked one (count 'em! ONE) fish all day, and that sucka' managed to break my line almost as soon as I set the hook.

I did meet up with Michael Gracie, however, and being able to converse with an actual flesh-and-blood life-form made the day swing by. Also, by chance, I ran across Jerry, the father of one of my son's school mates, which was a nice surprise. With two actual people there, it gave my imaginary friends a well-earned break. Now, if I could just get the Shadow People to take five...

Jump ahead a few weeks - and again, things are not panning out like I had hoped. Unforeseen work, unusually cold weather, a garage door that decided to bust a spring and some hinges....what the hell?

I also have a several pages of this blog that still need to be wrapped up and posted...I have a few more flies I need to finish tying and sent out to some folks....barely into 2010 and I'm already behind the 8-ball and feeling more disorganized than a group of ADHD sufferers trying to put together a pinata party.

Such is the life of a single parent.

As you can imagine, when a small window of opportunity presents itself, I'm all over that like Jerry Lewis on the percocet bottle in the 23rd hour of his telethon.

Bag packed? Check. Gear loaded? Check. Ready to fish? Hell yeah!

We got to the river a little later than normal and, of course, there's already throngs of people piling in. We look like a bunch of pioneers participating in a Government-sponsored land-grab, double-timing our way to the water, with nervous glances over our shoulders, while desperately trying to beat each other to the river's edge. It's pathetic.

Since my usual starting points were already taken, Eva and I moved up river, and found ourselves on a nice little stretch of the Ice Box, with it's deep runs, and overly-large fish. And let's not forget the nasty drifts and currents.

Let's digress and talk about those for a minute, shall we?

We all know that the deeper you go in a river, the faster the water is moving. Now, throw in a ton of large rocks, numerous currents and several deep cuts, and you should get the picture: the drifts down low in this type of water are an absolute nightmare.

What appears to be fairly predictable water on top, is nothing short of pure chaos the further down you go - the proverbial descent into Hell, if you will, with marriage to my ex awaiting you at the end. Ha! No, no....I'm joking of course.........

And, since nothing can ever be easy in this sport, this is also where the really big fishies love to hang out. And this is where we started our journey.

Eva started off by fishing to 3 large fish (25-30 inch range) in about 4-5 feet of turbulent water. I was aiming for a group of 6-7 nice-sized fish (18-20 inch range) in a seriously nasty current (that made Marty Feldman's eye's seem straight) while perched atop a rock, between two massive boulders. This gave me a window of about 10 feet (right to left) through which I had to cast my line.

Here's the catch - the water is moving fast, and the fish are in about 4 feet of water, which means I have to have enough weight on my line to get the fly down far enough (and fast enough) before my line wrapped the rock to my left (which happened a lot). A study in futility to say the least.

The current(s) was an altogether different story. It took me a long time and a bajillion casts to finally figure it out, and by that time, the sun had broke the clouds and was positioned perfectly above to where I could actually get a nice view of the fish I was after.

Problem was, they wound up seeing me, too, and a few of them left to go play someplace else.

During all of this, I heard Eva let out a yell and, glancing up, I could just see her line from around the boulder to my right, as it cut it's way through the water....and then snap. Talking to her later, I found out that it was a smaller fish that she had hooked and not one of the freaks in the channel in front of her. Regardless, good job Eva!

So, focusing back to the task at hand....I had good light, and I now knew where I needed to get my line in the water. I felt comfortable with the timing, and placed some faith in the mighty little Zebra that I had just tied on.

And then the Fish and Game dude showed up, which cost me another 5 minutes as we chatted and he checked my license. After he left, I prepared to cast my heavily-weighted line - which subsequently tangled up on me. I tell ya, sometimes it's almost like I wished I had just stayed in bed.

After an eternity of un-raveling my line, I finally got my fly into the water and, as it turned in the drift and started heading down stream, a previously un-seen shape darted up from some dark water and, just as quick, turned downward again....and I set my line. And I nailed that SOB.

And then it occurred to me that, this was the most idiotic place to be trying to hook a fish. I couldn't move from the rock I was on, and if the fish ran to my right or left, I was screwed. My sister is right - I really am an idiot.

Fortunately for me, this fish ran straight out from me...whew. He jumped a few times, which Eva saw from around the boulder, so she immediately came around to my side with the net.

It took a little jostling and turning, but I finally managed to get this pig over the net that Eva was holding and we got this guy bagged...just as my line snapped. At first I thought the hook had popped, but I looked at my line and saw that it had broken off at the fly.

Eva had to take the net off the rocks, downstream and around the boulder to get to some shallow water, and it was there that she attempted to remove the hook - and he bucked out of her grip and away to freedom before we could get any pics or video. Ah well.

Nice fish, though...18-20 and fat. Like a Frying Pan football, with an extremely dark top. He reminded me of the paint scheme on the old P-51 Mustang, with the olive top coat and polished aluminum sides and bottom.

(As a tangent, there's not much I wouldn't do to climb behind the controls of one of those old birds - and a few years back, while fishing in the canyon, I actually watched a ballsy pilot flying his Mustang - red tail version - down the canyon. It was an incredible sight.)

By this time, the sun had moved back behind the clouds again, so I switched out to the BDSP. I could still see one of the larger fish down low against the sandy bottom, but I had completely lost sight of several others along the dark seam of the mossy rocks below. The guy down low was an impossible target, so I was left trying for the fish that I knew were there, but couldn't see. Ugh.

After about ten minutes of casting, I managed to finally hit another one and, as luck would have it, he immediately darted around the boulder to my left. Snap.

Think I would learn my lesson? No way. I'm stubborn AND stupid! Woohooo! So I tied on another scud, and went back at it.

This time, it was about 20 minutes before I hit another one. And it was the big one parked low. I didn't intend to hit that one...and I never dreamed that I would be able to nail him...and I was completely caught off guard. How my fly wound up down there by him, I will never know. But it did. And it was in his mouth.

And then the strangest thing happened - something I've never seen before...and likely, never will. Rather than running, like fish normally do, this one stayed put. Instead, he started violently shaking his head and thrashing, while moving UP and DOWN in the column. And I'll be damned...he popped the hook.

And then he settled back down again and resumed feeding, as if nothing had happened. Me and my hook were a minor distraction to him - he wanted nothing to do with my nonsense, and he totally brushed me off.

That tripped me out. As I type this, I'm still just shaking my head in disbelief. I totally got owned by a fish.

The fly itself, did not escape unscathed. I pulled my line in, thinking maybe my tippet had snapped. Nope. There was the fly - and it was in bad shape. The backing was torn and the wire ribbing had been broken. It's also missing some dubbing from the rear, too.

I can only wonder if anyone else has experienced something like that? Bizarre....and a flash of intelligence that is actually a little disconcerting, to say the least.

Anyway, Eva (above, looking like a Ninja Angler) managed another hook-up, but that one popped her hook as well. I managed another one before the day was out...but alas, once again the rocks were my bane.

Not a lot of photos...and just a lot of stories. But sometimes, thats what this sport is about - and on the drive home, Eva had to remind me that, at it's core, it's about the personal experience, and not the showmanship that one would like to present in a public forum.

And she's right. This time, anyway.

Next time is a different story, though!

The Tried and True Pheasant Tail

2009-12-04T11:56:00.012-07:00

Since I can't seem to find the time to actually make it out onto the water, I thought I'd finish up a post that I started a while back about tying the reliable Pheasant Tail - which is also referred to as a PT. But not to be confused with PTs here in Denver, which is a strip club of some sorts. Get the two mixed up and you may have to answer to your better half.

So, this is actually one of my favorite flies to tie, for both it's simplicity, as well as it's effectiveness, and is a staple of most any fly box (and for good reason). Run a Google search on this pattern and you will be buried by the amount of information that is returned on this fly.

Because of that, I am not going to waste a lot of time dissecting and ruminating on the nuances of this one - why wallow in redundancy? Why wallow in redundancy?

This fly (like Dick Clark) has been around forever and, over the years, has seen it's share of modifications (also like Dick Clark). The original Frank Sawyer pattern was extremely simplified, and used nothing but wire.

Al Troth took Sawyer's pattern and turned it into what you essentially see today - and that's the pattern that I base my flies on. Actually, it's my version of Charlie Craven's version of Al Troth's version of Frank Sawyer's original pattern. Did you get all that?

One area that I get a lot of grief, is that I like to tie my PTs on a hook with a little more 'curve' to it. Why? For starters, I like to buck authority just to rub people the wrong way. But also, I find the 'organic' profile to be more appealing to the peepers.

Most Pheasant Tails that I've seen use a straight-shank hook - and without question, they work, since I've managed to catch fish with those (and if you've seen me fish, you'd be surprised that I catch anything at all). But I've also managed to stick some fish with this one, and, being a slave to my primitive instincts, I've decided curves are it for me.

Like I mentioned above, I love tying this one - it is simplistic in form, yet quite beautiful when completed (although you can't tell from the shitty frame-caps that I use). And a stark contrast to the All Shall Perish, Satyricon or some other bombastic, in-your-face-assault-your-senses-music that I usually have playing as I tie.

As an FYI, the fly below was tied while listening to Lamb of God's Sacrament. Probably not the choice of 99.99999% of fly-tiers out there...but, if you happen to fall into the .00001% niche, this album delivers a brutal kick to the stones, while keeping others at bay so that you can tie, undisturbed.

So here it is - a Pheasant Tail pattern:

Hook: #16, 18 or 20 Tiemco 2487

Thread: 8/0 Red UNI-Thread
Tail: Pheasant Center Tail (4-5 from the tip)
Ribbing: Copper Brown Ultra Wire SM

Body: 2-3 Peacock Herl
Wing Case: Turkey Wing Quill (Mottled)*

Legs: Soft Hackle Hen Saddle Patch (Speckled)

Step 1

Funny how it always starts with this - but begin by attaching your thread to your hook, and clipping off the tag end.

Step 2

Next, attach your copper wire to the shank, and tie that wire on down - to around the 1/4 mark of the hook's bend...like so.

Step 3

Using your sticky little digits, get yourself 4 pheasant tail fibers. Now, not being one to embrace 'rules', and other anal-retentive stuff, I do realize that at times, there is a need for some consistency. And this is one of them. I usually make the length of the tails 3/4 the length of the shank. Were those gasps of disgust I just heard?

Step 4

Get the fibers secured to the hook a fraction of an inch above the initial wrap of thread - this is to insure that, once the fibers are wrapped, the fly ends up with a....little red butt.

Trust me, a little red butt never hurt anyone.

Once you have the pheasant fibers secured with a couple turns of thread, start wrapping some thread around the hook to build up a taper that stops about a 1/4 shank shy of the eye. This is to give your PT a more rotund, plumpy abdomen, like Alec Baldwin.

Once that's complete, wrap the fibers forward on the hook, stopping a little past the taper, and QUICK! Secure 'em down so they don't unravel.

Now here's where there's some room for discussion. Some folks like to use the tail-ends of the fibers as the wing case - which is all good, since it makes sense to use the same pieces.

But since I seem to have suffered a debilitating, closed-head injury somewhere along the way, I like to complicate things up a bit for the sheer hell of it. Which is why I prefer to use the quills from a turkey wing.

For one, I like the 'harder' texture and contrast that the turkey provides, as opposed to the streamlined, blend-right-in look of the pheasant.

It's strictly a preference at this point so spare me the hate mail, please. Unless it's something truly creative and offensive, then by all means, email away.

Step 5

Now, take the copper wire and begin wrapping it forward along the abdomen, being sure to go in the opposite direction that you've wrapped the fibers (but I didn't need to tell you that, did I?)

Once you reach the end of the pheasant tail fibers, go ahead and tie the wire off with a few nice turns of thread and cut off the excess.

Step 6

Alright, here's where the turkey comes in. Pick about 3 or 4 quills from the feather and snip 'em off. You'll notice that there is a difference in color between the two sides of the feather - usually, I'll go with the darker side for the wing case - which means you will tie it light-side up.

And yes, I have used the lighter side as the wing case - and while it had more of 'cyber-punk' feel to it, it still caught fish. So there.

Step 7

Next, take two or three strands of peacock herl and tie those on to the hook, and then wrap them forward just shy of the eye. And when I say 'just shy of the eye' I mean leave enough room at the end to tie your fly off. So what is that in measurements? I don't know...we're tying flies here, not splitting atoms, so guesstimating is ok.

Alright, tie off the herls and clip the excess.

Step 8

Now, go ahead and pull the turkey quills (or pheasant fibers) over the top of the herl and secure it down with a few turns of thread. For those of you that used the turkey, sit back now, and congratulate yourself for coloring outside the lines.

And those kids that used the pheasant fibers...um, good job!

Step 9

Now reach on over and pluck a feather from the hen saddle - we're going to use the fibers from this piece to make the legs. Now, usually, what I will do is grab enough so that the width of the fibers is about equal to the profile of the body, as you can see from the picture above.

Once I have those, I tie them in - making sure the tips are at about the mid-way point on the abdomen. Once I have a few turns of thread on them, I will bend the forward fibers back and secure them down with another couple of turns.

Clip off the excess and repeat for the other side. Once both sides are done, give the front of the fly a few more turns of thread, whip finish, clip the tag and apply a drop of head cement.

The end result should look something like this....and when you see this, it means it's time to drift that bad-boy!

On a serious note, there's a reason we call these 'recipes'...nothing is set in stone and they're open to experimentation - the whole point is to have fun and catch some fish. Trying to mimic a tired old cliche' like 'Chad', who works at the Orvis shop, and talks about insects while using their Latin names, won't make you a better fisherman.

Instead, bend the rules, develop your own style, and enjoy the ride...

November Slam

2009-11-27T18:35:00.029-07:00

Well, so much for only being off the river for a month. As it turned out, it was more like two, really long, painful months. So when the stars finally aligned, and I was laying in bed the night before, I couldn't sleep. I'm pretty pathetic like that.

Having tossed and turned the entire night, I was up early and my stupid ass was out the door and on the road by 4:45 am, with two months worth of stories, pictures and scenarios whirling through the recesses of my head like a category 5 hurricane.

Needless to say, I was the first one at the river that morning...and the first one to exclaim "It's f***ing COLD!" to no-one in particular (more than once). Yeah, I doubt the fish were feeling any sympathy for me - if anything, they were saying something like "Ah shit, that idiot with the scud is back AGAIN."

Flows (as expected) were down - and at the Family Pool (where I usually start the day) there was a nice, deep seam that had a lot of nice fish parked within it. So, being a man-child of ritual (and superstition) I started out with the Best Damn Scud Pattern. Period. My apologies to Fox sports.

And it didn't disappoint. One after another took that fly - with two of them being nice, large fish, which I got on video. I've posted the pattern because it's consistently proven itself deadly on a lot of tail-waters out here in the west - and it's just too good of a pattern to keep to myself.

Have I mentioned that I've caught more big fish on a scud than any other pattern? I have? Hmmm...

Anyway, the bigger fish were clearly visible in the seam, but what I didn't see, were quite a few smaller trout that were hiding along the sides. So, while trying to hit the larger targets in the current, I also managed to pull out quite a few of the smaller ones in the process. Scratch. A little bonus tossed in by the fish Gods.

By the time the sun managed to light the water, I had pretty much decimated that section so, as is my custom after the sun has risen, I changed out my fly. I chose to tie on a pattern that BIGERRFISH had sent me a while back - it is a well-tied fly, and an interesting change for me, being that I am not one to use flies with rubber legs and such.

I chose a shallow section of river, chock full of rocks with a lot of algae on the bottom - dark green, faster water, where I had seen an occasional flash, and tossed that fly down the middle. First cast, and I nailed a nice little Bow. This was turning out to be an epic late-November day.

After that, I wound my way upriver - but with the lower flows, there wasn't a lot of big targets to aim for. I spent the afternoon hitting a few smaller fish in some flats - and pulled a nice brown from beneath a boulder. About 1 pm I decided to start working my way back down the opposite side of the river, and found myself at the top of the Ice Box, staring into a deep seam, at two very large fish (in the 23-26 inch range).

Now, this time of year, this part of the canyon will be in shadows by early afternoon, and it's tough to see into the deeper runs. And it's in these deeper runs that you're going to find a lot of the larger fish - so being there with the sun still lighting the water was a blessing. Looking up to the sky, however, I saw that I had about 30 minutes or so before the water went dark and, if I wanted the benefit of sight-fishing to these guys, then I needed to get busy.

It took me a while to find the drift - I was casting around a huge boulder into a current that was moving away from me - plus, I had a hard mend to the opposite side to try and get the drift to flow diagonal to where I was standing, and after about 20 minutes and several fly changes, I was starting to think that getting a perfect drift was going to be impossible from where I was at.

During the time I was trying to throw my line, another fish moved up and parked alongside the other two - and it dwarfed them. It was massive and my pulse picked up when I saw it park and start feeding. No kidding...I was filled with nervous energy and it took a lot of control to keep from blowing the deal. Rifle hunters know this feeling all too well and many a trophy has been lost to Buck Fever. Well, I had Fish Fever.

I had sunlight that was about to disappear, and I was frantically trying to roll through my flies to find something (anything) that these three actively feeding fish would hit - and then it occurred to me - I needed to adjust my weight. Damn it! I was so focused on getting the drift going that I had completely forgotten the other critical component: depth. I've been fishing for how long now? I should get my ass kicked for that.

So I pulled in my line, changed out my fly to a San Juan, and added some more split-shot. While I was doing this, the sun disappeared behind the canyon wall and the water went dark. Ah well...I knew where they were parked, and I tossed my line. First cast through with the extra weight, and I nailed him. How do I know it was the big one? I just knew.

When he took off, it felt as if my line were attached to a dump truck - and he ran like a bat out of hell, making a total mockery of the drag that my reel was attempting to apply. And he ran upriver - under the boulder to my right and out the other side....my line dragging along the rough surface of the rock...and there was nothing I could do but wait for the inevitable.

As I sat there putting on a new section of tippet, split-shot and fly, I thought about how different it would have been had that tub ran downstream instead of up. To the left, the Ice Box is open water with relatively few obstacles - and with lower flows, it would be the ideal place to try and subdue a monster.

Yeah, what-if. Oh well, there is a 26-30+ inch fish in that section of the river with my fly in it's mouth, and I'm ok with that. After I retied my gear, I tossed a few more times in that stretch and managed to pull out a nice fish. I'm not big on blind-fishing, so decided to call it a day after that.

But what a day it had been.

Best Damn Scud Pattern. Period.

2009-11-24T21:39:00.046-07:00

If I had a dime for every puzzled look I've received when answering 'Scud' to the question of "What are you using?" I'd have....well, not enough to push me into a new tax bracket, but it might be enough to buy me a double cheeseburger at Mickey D's.

Not sure why, but it seems like there are a lot of folks out there that, for one reason or another, have never heard of a scud, or have just never given them much thought. Which is a shame, considering that this pattern, in my opinion, deserves it's place among the heavyweights, such as the Pheasant Tail and RS2.

A guy I once fished with scoffed at the idea of using a scud. He was more of a dry-fly purist, and had a tendency to look down upon wet flies in general, but using something as gnarly and dirty as a scud? Uncivilized. Damn straight. I take pride in the fact that I'm one DNA base away from being a primate.

As it is, conventional wisdom and traditions are wonderful - but keeping an open mind is even greater. Plus, it will keep you from smelling like 'old man and sour butt' (which are Eva's words, not mine).

And yes, I really should get my ass kicked for using the word scoffed.

Anyway, for me, this scud pattern is the undisputed champ when it comes to big fish - I've caught more big'uns using this pattern, than any other fly that I carry - which isn't really saying much, since I only use a handful of nymphs to begin with. I guess it's the minimalist in me. Or maybe because I'm an idiot.

So what is a scud? It's a small, fresh-water crustacean that is prevalent year-round, in most tail-water systems, spring creeks and some large bodies of water, and they are an important component to a fish's dietary intake. Plus, when they go forth and multiply, they do it by obscene amounts, making even the staunchest of Mormons envious of their pro-creation skills.

Note: a scud is also a type of missile, and you should never, ever get the two confused, otherwise, bad things could happen. Really. Bad. Things.

For the most part, these ugly little bugs hang out amongst the aquatic vegetation. They are aggressive eaters and can swim quite well, using their 14 little legs to get to where they're going. While swimming or crawling, they tend to flatten out some, but their most common state while floating is in a curled configuration, much like the shrimp in your cocktail, or me, in the fetal position, after eating a Don Juan's combination burrito.

There are a lot of scud patterns out there, in different shapes, sizes and colors. One of the most popular being the orange UV Scud that Pat Dorsey ties - supposedly, this is the color of a scud that has bought the farm and is easy pickings for feeding trout.

Regardless, the colors I tend to use are an olive, olive/silver mix or a tan/yellow combination, and they've worked quite well for me on a lot of tail-waters out here in the West - in particular, the Platte, Taylor and the Blue.

As far as water conditions go, I've used it in all of the different types of water that a river can throw at you and I've had success in all of them - from drop pools to riffles, flats to deep seams.

Below is the BDSP version that I've been using exclusively for the past few years - and it's my personal ace-in-the-hole. It's the very same fly that I've used to catch most of those big fish in the pictures and videos.

And I give it to you freely. Consider this an early Christmas present. Or Pagan Offering. Or whatever the hell you celebrate in today's politically-correct landscape. Just be sure to remember where you got it from.

Best Damn Scud Pattern. Period.

Hook: #16 Tiemco 2488

Thread: 8/0 Red UNI-Thread
Tip/Tail: Pheasant Center Tail (4-5 from the tip)

Body: Creamy Yellow Dubbing (or Olive w/ Silver)
Back: 1/4 inch Tan Scud Back (or Olive)

Rib: Copper Ultra Wire (Hot Orange also works) / Silver Ultra Wire (with the Olive)

Step 1

Begin by attaching your thread to the hook and making a couple of wraps - yeah, this is the easy stuff.

Step 2

Place your wire along the hook and begin wrapping your thread towards the back.

Note: at this point, some of you may be tempted to add a few twists of lead, and that's fine. Personally, I prefer using split-shot on the line for more control.

Stop the wrap about 1/4 way around the bend of the hook and give the thread a few extra turns.

Step 3

Now wrap the thread back towards the front of the hook, stopping just behind the eye.

Step 4

Pluck, pull or gnaw 4-5 fibers from the tip of your Pheasant Tail and place them (tapered ends forward) along the shank of the hook. How much, you ask? Hell, I don't know. Look at the picture and guesstimate - be a rebel. Er...a sensible rebel.

Now that you've bucked tradition, wrap the thread towards the back of the hook and stop just shy of the few extra turns that you performed in Step 2. You did make a few extra turns, right?

Step 5

Ok, once again, wrap your thread back up the hook to about the midway point, and get ready for some serious fun. Now would be a good time to take a drink of that beer sitting next to you.

Using a lot of dexterity (and patience) attach the scud backing to the hook. I'll wait. And while I do, let me jaw your ear for a minute:

Go out and purchase some scud backing. Don't be a cheap weasel and use ziplock baggies or some other crap you find lying around the house. Backing is soft, pliable and you can stretch the hell out of it - it also holds it's shape well after repeated use. That's all I have to say about that.

After you've managed to get a few turns of thread around the backing to secure it to the hook, gently pull back on the skin and continue wrapping until you make it back to the place on the hook where you made the few extra turns that I suggested in Step 2 and mocked you about in Step 4.

Step 6

Here's an easy part - place some of the dubbing onto your thread, and begin wrapping towards the front of the hook.

When you're finished, it should look something like this.

Step 7

Remember the scud backing that we put on a few steps back? Go ahead and grab it and pull it forward, over the top of the dubbing and slightly down across the eye. While keeping constant pressure on the backing, quickly get a few turns of thread around that bastard to lock it down.

Now finish your beer and get another cold one ready.

Step 8

Now, take your wire and gently wrap it around the body of the fly, applying just enough pressure to create some detail. Once you've made it to the front, you can apply a few turns of thread to secure it, and then cut/helicopter twist the wire off.

Two things that you may notice at this time: one, is that the wire may slide all over he scud backing. If this happens, know that I am laughing with you, and not at you. Consider using a little less pressure on your wrap and that should stop the slippage.

Second, you may also notice that the scud backing is turning on the dubbing (be sure to look on the other side of the fly while you do this). Again, if this happens, you can use your fingers to twist it back into place. A little less pressure while wrapping your wire should solve this problem.

Step 9

Next, pull back on the skin just enough to stretch it - and then trim the excess.

Now, give your thread a few wraps around the front, with the goal being a nice smooth taper into the form of the body. Whip finish that bad boy and apply a drop of head cement.

Step 10

Now we can trim the tail. As you can see in the picture, I am using the scissors from directly above while pulling the fibers out and to the back.

Two questions that you may be asking yourself - how long do I make it, and how did he manage to say tail and trim in the same sentence?

Make the length of the tail long enough to stick out. Easy enough? I don't think I've ever had a consistent length on either end of this pattern for as long as I've been tying them, and the fish really don't seem to mind. As long as you keep the lengths somewhat close to what I have in the pictures, it'll work.

Step 11

Using your dubbing needle, pull out some of the dubbing from the underside of the fly. Don't be shy, get in there and pull some out like a man.

Finally, using your scissor, go in at an angle, and trim the ends of the dubbing (it should be longer in the front, getting shorter the farther back it goes).

You can actually take this pattern an extra step by applying epoxy to the back - it does look really good like that. But, does it make a difference in the long run, as far as effectiveness? I haven't noticed a difference.

So, what can this fly do? See for yourself. The very same fly being tied in the pictures above, was used, several days later, to catch the fish in the first two pictures below (along with a few others). The fish on the bottom was caught with the same pattern on the Taylor.

Hopefully it works as good for you, as it does for me. If you end up with some great pictures, by all means, send me a copy.

Jerry with a kick-ass 'bow, caught on the BSDP. April, 2010

One of several big tubs that fell for the BSDP. August, 2010

...and another. June, 2011

November, 2011

Back in the Canyon...

2009-09-21T09:29:00.023-06:00

...meaning, Cheeseman Canyon - an old familiar friend that can be a real tough nut at times. And this was one of those times. Stoopid tough nuts....

At least the weather reports were all pointing to a fantastic late summer day, with temps in the mid-70s and blue skies - and they were right. It wound up being a great day to be out and about tossing a fly (unless one forgets to put on their 'sun-scream'....Eva? Are you paying attention?).

I got up to the river early, with my much, much better-half planning on meeting up with me later in the day - but even at this hour, there were already quite a few folks there gearing up. I guess I'm not the only one that watches the weather.

So, I geared up as fast as possible, and walked the rolling mile to the water's edge, and lo and behold! there were a lot of fish in the river - and they all seemed to be actively feeding. Yeah, that's what I'm talking about!

I already had an RS2 tied up from my last outing, so I tossed that their way - and shortly there-after, wound up hooking a little fella - about 8 inches or so. Didn't even see the guy...and I must have got him at the end of my drift - apparently I set the hook as I went to retrieve my line.

After that, I focused on the tubs that were parked in a deep seam in the middle of the river, and wound up striking out with the RS2. So I switched over to BDSP and the first cast through them, I bagged myself a nice 20 inch Bow.

Turning on my camera, I saw that I had about 10 minutes of juice left for filming, so I quickly got some footage and switched over to the GoPro for an underwater shot - only to find out that the batteries were missing from the camera. Ah yes, the pitfalls of having a 6 year old in the house with a need for batteries to run all of his goodies. No underwater shots this time around.

After the release, I went back to the well for another shot (actually, quite a few shots) but the fish left in there had no interest in the scud - and not wanting to change out yet, I walked a little way down-stream and saw a beauty of a fish parked beside a rock.

After a few casts to get the drift down, I wound up rolling this one as well - not as fat as the first one, but longer, and he looked real nice in the net (you know what I'm talking about).

Before the sun lit the water like David Hasselhoff in the middle of a weekend bender, the scud was once again the go-to fly. I bit into one more sub that wound up breaking my line...and then everything stopped.

Seriously, once the sun came out, it was if a switch had been thrown and the fish shut down.

One fish, in particular, was in a nice seam, maybe a foot below the surface. The drift was so perfect that even Stephen Hawking could have made it with little effort. I threw everything I had at this guy and....nothing. Same with the next one...and the one after that.

Fortunately, it wasn't just me - throughout the rest of the day Eva and I spoke with a lot of folks, and they all said that it had been brutally slow - even a guide that I was talking to (out of earshot of his client) said that it had not been the best day to be on the river.

I only managed one more smaller rainbow (12 inches) on a Hare's Ear the rest of the day, and that one I pulled from a deep seam while blind-fishing.

Overall, it was a good day - I netted two awesome trout, and two wee little fish, and lost one sub - and given how slow the river was fishing to begin with, I think that's pretty darn good. Plus, I know that it will be picking up as autumn moves forward - so there's more to be had down the road.

Unfortunately for me, though, I am going to miss the entire month of October due to a brutal travel schedule and workload. Hopefully, Eva will be able to make it out to the river once or twice and, between her and all of the blogs that I follow, I hope to be able to 'fish' vicariously through all of you.

Here's to hoping that I can handle a full month and some change without throwing a line.

Hog-Wrangling

2009-09-07T10:51:00.060-06:00

Geez, where did the time go? It seems like forever since I was last able to post. With a massive project approaching it's deadline, the start of a new school year for my son, Tiger Scouts, fundraisers, a water heater that needed replacing (with several ice-cold showers to boot), and the in's and out's of the day-to-day routine...I haven't been able to post for quite some time. I suck.

As it was, this past Labor Day weekend was supposed to be a relaxing way to end the summer - a few days in the back country spent fishing and hanging out with Eva was the original plan. Also, I was going to hook a pig - if I only nailed one fish the entire weekend, so be it, as long as it was a BBF (big beautiful fish).

That was my sole intent - to hook a freakishly-large fish for 2009, so I made sure to pack some extra OCD before I left the house.

"Swerve me? The path to my fixed purpose is laid with iron rails, whereon my soul is grooved to run. Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!"

So reads a verse in Herman Melville's epic masterpiece, Moby Dick. A fine metaphor and one that resonates with me, being that I'm mental.

As it turned out, Eva was unable to make the trip, the weather was less than favorable, and the water was fishing slow. How slow? "It's like casting to a painting..." replied one older gentleman as he was coming off the river.

Ouch. That didn't bode well, especially if it was a Warhol. Too cliche' and over-rated for my taste. I'm not a fan of 'pop art'...which is not to be confused with 'pop tart', which is far more palatable than the former, if you ask me.

Um....yeah...

...so I geared up and walked my way down to the water's edge which, upon inspection, seemed to be chock-full of fishy goodness. And most of them were huge. The middle seam of the river had more jumbo's lined up in a holding pattern than O'Hare on a Friday afternoon. Granted, they were hugging the bottom tighter than a pair of Daisy Duke's, but at least there were fish. And when there's fish, there's always a chance of hooking one.

While I casually changed out my tippet and fly, I was studying the water and coming up with a battle-plan - the depth that they were at would require an Oprah-sized serving of lead, (which is not fun trying to cast on my Finesse 5 wt) unless I could get my fly upstream, into an eddy, which would then pull my line down for me.

Hopefully, the current would then straighten my line, and drift my fly directly between 5 of the bigger fish in that section. Of course, an indicator would be moot at this point, being that my entire line would be submerged - so precise execution would be key. Or, to paraphrase a line from the movie, Big Trouble in Little China - "This is gonna take Cracker Jack timing, Wang."

The cast itself was absolutely ridiculous, and I was thinking to myself that this was starting to look like a twisted fly-fishing version of a Rube Goldberg Machine - I was dropping my fly about 15-20 feet upstream, and about 2-3 feet to the left of the middle of the river, followed by a hard mend to the left. As my line came down with the current, it was then pulled under, and driven to the right (with a subsequent mend in the same direction), at which time, I had to tight-line the hell out of it. Whew.

Fortunately, my theory worked and I wound up pitching strikes over home plate. Now if I could just get a fish to swing...

As my fly approached, there must have been a subtle twitch on the 3rd fish in line - something that my sub-conscience registered, because instinctively I set the hook and was rewarded with the sound of my reel un-spooling line as the fish took off to the far side of the river.

And it was a nice fish - and as such, it took some patience on my part to avoid snapping my line before I could net him - which I eventually did, to the excited yells of some small kids that were spectating (with their mother) from the over-pass. They got a serious kick out of seeing me haul this whale out of the water - which made this catch a little more special.

On the bank, were a couple of folks watching as well, and in my haste I asked if they could run the video camera for me - had I had my wits about me, I would have taken some shots of this fish before handing the camera off - it was big, fat, healthy and had some brilliant colors.

So, as I tried to pull this slab out for the money shot, he bucked and wiggled his way to freedom. Ah well. It was the big one that I was looking for - 25 inches (?) and a good 6 or 7 pounds. I've got no complaints.

After that, I managed one more (which popped the hook) before I made my way back to Buena Vista for some grub from the Pizza Works (awesome pies, by the way) and some college football. As a side note, when in Buena Vista, check out the Great Western Sumac Lodge. It's reasonably priced, locally owned and operated, very clean and the folks there are as friendly as they get. Especially the resident dog. Although I would recommend avoiding the big white cat.

Tangent: the pic below is of Taylor Res. It's about 5 in the morning and the view is from the west side of Cottonwood Pass. The fog bank had formed directly over the reservoir and as the morning progressed (and the wind picked up) it blew the mist directly down the canyon, along the river - which made the first hour of fishing a little more interesting.

As I said, it was slow - the rest of the weekend I managed one small brown (on a leech pattern) and an average rainbow that I foul-hooked (which doesn't count) near the eye - I hate that. Even more-so, being that the hook was so close to his orb - that freaked me out a bit and left me feeling dirty and guilty inside. Not a pencil in sight, he wasn't running (initially) and yet he STILL almost lost an eye.

But, I can rest easy - I got my White Whale for '09, and all is good.

These Boots Were Made for Fishing...

2009-09-01T09:09:00.008-06:00

This seems to be the year of 'new gear' for me - and my boots were next on the list of replacements. The past six months I've been coming off the river with toes that feel like they've been hit with a hammer, and ankles that feel like I've been fishing in 6-inch heels (not that I know what that feels like). They've been good boots, though. We've covered a lot of water together, seen a lot of fish, and have taken our share of spills. Three felt changes later, however, and it's time to move on.

I had been scoping out boots for the past few months, reading reviews and brushing up on all of the new happenings in the world of wading boots - felt seems to be taking a bad rap as of late, but I'm still not convinced that it takes a back-seat to the new 'felt-less' soles that seem to be all the rage these days, but I'm willing to keep an open mind and give the other stuff a spin.

When I bought my last pair of boots, the water was fairly accessible, and I spent my time on the river....IN the river. Felt was ideal. However, in Colorado, I spend most of my time in Cheeseman Canyon, which requires a lengthy hike to reach the water, over some fairly rough terrain. And once at the water's edge, you spend most of your time on the sharp, rocky banks, with the occasional excursion into the river itself.

So what I needed were a pair of boots that could handle the amount of rough trail hiking and bank fishing that I do, as well as being flexible enough to handle some wet fishing conditions when needed.

Enter Korkers and their Omnitrax Sole System. Two pairs that I narrowed it down to were the Guide and Streamborn series of wading boots, with the Guide eventually losing out to the Streamborn simply because of the Boa Lacing System that the Guide employs. Call me old fashioned, but the laces just do a better job of cinching up the boot for better foot and ankle support.

When talking to the sales rep, I asked about the durability of the Boa Lacing System - and, as to be expected, he said that it should provide trouble-free operation for years to come with normal wear and tear. Not sure what 'normal wear and tear' would be, but after seeing the system first hand, I wasn't too impressed. My son's Bakugan toys feel more solidly-built than the Boa System.

The Korker's website for the Boa Lacing System (above) has a video posted outlining the steps required for 'lace' replacement - which for me, is a red flag. As durable as the company (and sales rep) say they are, it bothered me a little to see the video posted on the site. Not to mention the sales rep's recommendation that I buy an extra set of wires 'just in case'. To me, that doesn't instill confidence. What happens if you don't have an extra set on you, and you pop a wire on the river?

As a last jab at the Boa System - it's suggested that, after fishing, one should wash the system, to remove any dirt and debris that could potentially jack up the mechanics. Sorry, the last thing I want to do is perform preventive maintenance on my BOOTS. I can see my to-do list now:

Clean and change filter furnace
Change oil in truck
Check and clean boot's lacing system
Take out garbage

Yeah, that ain't going to happen.

Anyway, back to the Streamborn - from the reviews that I've read, it seems like there is a lot of animosity aimed at this Korkers boot - a lot of folks providing feedback bemoaning their decision to buy something other than Simms. Well, I've gone from Simms to Korkers now, and after four trips to the river (I'm slacking on my posts!), I can honestly say that I am impressed with the way the boots have handled themselves thus far.

The comfort has exceeded my expectations, but to be fair, I did buy some Dr. Scholl's gel inserts, which has really made standing all day in these boots a breeze. And the ease with which they handle tough terrain is impressive as well. I've had them on steep rocky inclines to slippery river rocks (and everything in between), and they've taken care of me in every situation thus far.

As for changing out the soles, I did it once just out of curiosity, to see how easy it would be, and I have to say that it was relatively pain-free. I doubt I'll be using the felt that much (if at all) - the Trail Lug insert works great for me and the conditions that I fish in (and I imagine it will handle snowy trails with ease as well).

They're also extremely easy to put on and take off - the tongue opens wide and there is little effort required to get your foot in (or out).

As for the construction, these are some well-made boots. The seams are tight, and over-laps have been reduced to a minimum, which is a good thing, in today's environment, to prevent unwanted hitch-hikers from getting a lift to another river or stream.

The only complaint that I have would be the actual size of the boot, as stated on the box (and on the boot itself) - I bought a size 12, but if I were a betting man, I'd say they were closer to an 11. And as these boots 'cure' and endure more time on the river, I can only assume that that they may shrink a bit, which could make for a tight fit. Only time will tell on this one - but if I end up having to soak these boots before heading to the water, rest assured someone will hear about it.

So from here, it's about durability and how much life I can pull from these boots. It's anybody's guess as to how well these will hold up in some fairly unfriendly conditions - the measuring stick is pretty high at this point, so these Korkers will have to perform above and beyond to gain rock-star-like status in my book.

But as of right now, I'm kinda digging these new boots and am optimistic about our future together.

Home Waters

2009-08-25T07:15:00.000-06:00

Wow - it has been over a month since I last fished Cheeseman Canyon - early July to be precise - which is something that hasn't happened in a long time. With a trip back home to Utah, a serious work-load and several weekends spent in the high-country, it stands to reason that my 'home waters' would not get the lovin' that it deserves.

Time to kiss and make up (cue the cheesy 70's porn music) and satisfy this hunger for some familiar fare.

Ok, so this time I managed to get us to the water at the perfect time - before the sun had risen, yet still light enough to see the water perfectly. And what we saw was not conducive to a happy homecoming: the flows were down, and the fish were few and far between. On top of that, the fish that were there showed more paranoia and skittishness than a season's worth of Intervention episodes.

On the plus side of things, they were all very nice fish - in the 15+ inch range. There was nary a wee-fish to be found.

So, we rolled up our sleeves and went to work, where Eva and I combined to lose a lot of fish to popped hooks and broken lines. The night prior, I had tied on a leader (6x) that I had bought quite some time ago, and it's been in my pack ever since. Also, I don't think the quality was all that great to begin with, so after the 4th fish snapped my tippet off at the leader, I changed it out. And guess what? no more snapped lines.

I also neglected to put on a new indicator - which I didn't realize until mid-afternoon. Like a BB rattling around in an empty tuna can, the thought finally soaked through my thick skull that I had been fishing sans an indicator since mid-morning. And you know something? I kinda liked it, in a sick, twisted sort of way.

For the most part, I would qualify the fishing as slow - simply because of the small number of available targets, and their level of anxiety. As far as flies went, PT's and midges were it - almost everything else failed to get a response (including my beloved scud, which only produced one fish all day).

And speaking of response - about mid-afternoon, I spotted a large target in some slow water next to the bank, and feeling rather saucy, I re-rigged with a dry and tossed it his way, and he went for it - only to turn away at the last second.

So I called Eva over, and we got her set up with a dry, and she started casting to him - only to get snubbed like I did. After that, we took turns tossing dries and getting ruthlessly spanked. He would come up, open wide, the fly would ALMOST enter his mouth, and then he would turn away, no doubt laughing at our expense the entire time.

After about 10 minutes of this nonsense, I had had enough. I may have no recourse when being laughed at by other people, but I refuse to get Punk'd by a fish. Dries may not be my forte, but I do know a few things about nymphing.

So, I tied on a PT, added some split shot, and a few casts later, with Eva manning the net, we had this clown bagged and tagged. As the old saying goes, "He Who Laughs Last is usually the One Holding the Net." After taking our revenge via taunts and embarrassing video evidence, he fought his way to freedom. Hopefully, a wiser fish for the experience.

You know, in the end, it was another great day on the water - the temps were pleasant, the skies were blue, and we were out on the water, enjoying Nature. These types of days are numbered, now, with autumn on deck, so every 'long-ball' day like this is to be savored.

Plus, we had some fun events that helped break up the day: a doe and her fawn crossed the river about 10 yards upstream of where we were fishing and, in the afternoon, as I was casting my line, I looked over to my right to see a large snake swimming the South Platte and heading almost directly at us. It was a day full of video opportunities.

Having two video cameras with us (sometimes 3, depending on the river) you would think we'd capture enough action to fill an hour. Nah...I'm a slacker. I do enough of that stuff on a day-to-day basis, and when I'm on the water, I want to fish. But, I think it would work in my favor to take a little more time to capture the moments on future trips.

On this outing, the underwater release shots look pretty good, so that has inspired me to put a little more focus on the videography aspect of things in the future - eventually, I may end up with enough cool, usable footage to actually make a kick-ass compilation - we'll see. I want to make sure I don't cross the line and turn my days of fishing into something that resembles 'work'.

So the river was about average for August - a bit slow, but it was still a great time. Next up, the Taylor - the fourth trip of the season, and one in which I have an agenda. No excuses and no distractions. By this time last year, I could claim three well-earned trophies (24 inches +) on that river, whereas this year, I am 0-for-1. The one pig I did manage to hook, broke me off after about 10 minutes and a scenic walk downriver.

I don't like getting snubbed...or owned, or shut out...or whatever you want to call it. It rattles my confidence and puts my Man Badge on shaky ground - which I've lost twice already this year. So, denizens of the Taylor River, you are hereby put on notice...I want one of you before the summer of '09 is in the books, so we can do it the easy way, or the hard way.

Unfortunately, I have the feeling it will be the latter.

Taylor Revisited

2009-08-10T07:00:00.006-06:00

Ah, the high country. Nothing quite like it, especially at 4 am, being that it's still dark. And really cold. Due to a 'slight miscalculation' in timing, we wound up at the C&R section of the Taylor at about....oh....'WAY TOO EARLY' am.

Had I been the navigation officer for Columbus, he would have 'discovered' the America's around 1480. That's Christopher's loss, I guess.

So once the sun did start to rise, and we managed to thaw ourselves out, the fishing was pretty decent - the flows were down, though, and a lot of the fish were parked deep.

Which wouldn't have been too much of an issue, had my drifts not been skewed (which I want to attribute to ice crystals in my blood stream).

From the start, things just didn't 'feel' right...I was missing a lot of potential sets (or what I thought were sets) and it wasn't until later in the day, while drifting a San Juan, that I actually saw my fly outpacing my indicator by a good foot - which really tweaked my melon (not that that isn't easy to do - I get mesmerized by bright, shiny objects on a regular basis).

As for Eva, she did well, hooking her first Taylor brown and getting him to the net - along with some other fish that she hooked, but lost - which seemed to happen quite a bit for a lot of us on the river Saturday. But, that's part of the fun, right? RIGHT?

Around 9ish or so....I can't really say for sure, being that it already felt like we had been on the river for the better part of a year....Jeff Allen, of the Fly Fishing Mind of Jeff Allen and the Allen Brothers Quality Hand-Tied Flies met up with us - and being able to hang with him for the rest of day really made this trip a little more special.

His knowledge of fishing is vast, and it's really a pleasure to be able to watch a guy like Jeff get down to business. I'm more of a 'slash-and-burn-scorched-earth' kinda angler, meaning other guys send someone like Martin Sheen upriver to 'exterminate me with extreme prejudice' - I know enough to be dangerous and I have my own methods and style - 'Guerilla Angling' at it's finest (or worse, depending on your point of view).

Jeff, on the other hand, is the consummate angler - and it was really great to see him on the water, and talk to him about the finer points of fly fishing. Plus, he's just an overall great guy and it was a pleasure to get to meet him and throw a line together. If you're going to be in the area, and need some flies and/or information on the local waters, Jeff is your man.

He's also the one that bit into a genuine SUB. And when I say sub, I'm talking in the 30-35 inch range. This thing was huge. No kidding, when this thing made a run downriver towards me, I saw the water levels rise as it displaced the volume around it. It was so big, it had little fish orbiting around it.

To make matters even more interesting, Jeff was using 8x - which is a fine balancing act to make even the Ringling Brothers stop and take notice. Unfortunately, this hog made straight for a rock and wrapped his line, which snapped it clean. I would have really loved to have seen that fish in the net...yeah, like it would have even fit in the net. I would have had to make a full-body tackle on this thing to bring it in.

Aside from the constant wind, it was a really fine day on the river - great company in Eva and Jeff, and a lot of other friendly anglers that we happened to meet throughout the day (like the guys that ate our cookies with their beer - you two kick ass!). The sun was out, the sky was blue (I'm purposely avoiding mentioning the gale-force winds we had to contend with for much of the day)....what more could you ask for on a weekend in August?

Towards the end of the day, fatigue was really starting to hammer me - throughout the week I was getting about 5-6 hours of sleep a night - with the Coup De Gras being Friday night and the bountiful 3 hours of sleep that we managed to get. Water-boarding has nothing on the rigors that I seem to put myself through.

After 12 hours on the river, in the sun and getting assaulted by the wind, you can maybe relate when I say that the drive back on Saturday was a study in torture.

Hell, I was exhausted at noon...let alone at 6 pm...I kept going thanks to copious amounts of energy bars, caffeine, sugar and 'dip'.

The drive back was surreal, to say the least, including the three large bucks that ran in front of us on Cottonwood Pass (I think this may have been a shared hallucination due to exhaustion). That's right...three large bucks that were running together - which is never a good sign. Obviously, they had been up to no good, and after they passed, I waited a little while longer to make sure there wasn't a police car chasing after them.

And what trip to the Taylor would be complete without a stop at Coney Island in Bailey? Jay, I know I promised you a picture, and I made a sincere effort to get one of some loaded dogs for you...but it was too little, too late. So this will have to do (I'll post the pic as soon as Eva sends it to me). Bon appetite.

Of Mysis and Men...

2009-08-01T16:29:00.000-06:00

Alright - so my plans have gone awry the past 30 days: extremely busy with work, a family trip back home to Utah (where a planned run on the Provo river never materialized), my new rod was mysteriously broken and....AND, I wound up bait fishing, not once....but TWICE. I feel so dirty inside.

Yeah, aside from visiting family and my son's birthday, July was a jerk in 2009.

Enter August. And the first free weekend in almost a month. Even better, Eva is finally finished with school, so now she's out of excuses as to why she can't come out and play. Also, I am in possession of a brand new rod, being that I know it will take a while for the good folks over at Temple Fork to get my other new rod repaired/replaced and sent back to me.

And lets not forget that college ball starts this month as well. Someone pinch me, because I must be dreaming - Woohooooo!

So what to do? How about hitting the Taylor River? Brilliant! Ok...so we're going to hit the Taylor and the fly of choice is a Mysis - which is a pattern that I have never tied, or ever fished in my entire 9 years here in Colorado. That's right: I HAVE NEVER FISHED A MYSIS PATTERN ON THE PAN, THE BLUE OR THE TAYLOR.

There, I said it. Ah, the shame.

So, why not? Because I'm a masochistic version of Lenny, that's why.

I've always preferred a challenge, and throwing a Mysis pattern just seemed...like cheating to me. Right or wrong, to me it would be like playing poker against those dogs in that hideous (but disturbingly popular) painting. Seriously, how good could they possibly be? They're dogs, and to make matters worse, they don't even have opposable thumbs, so they can't even hold the damn cards to begin with.

But then I started rationalizing, "...the really big fish on those rivers got big by eating Mysis shrimp..." Hmmmm....and with that thought, my moral compass went south in a big hurry.

So, having poured over page after page of information on these little buggers, I came up with my very own, uber-ultra-secret Mysis Pattern (like every other fly tier out there) that I have ceremoniously dubbed...the Mysis Pattern. A vulgar display of creative genius, if I do say so myself.

Being that I'm a virgin Mysis tier/fisher, this is either going to be a smashing success, or a ferocious kick in the testes. I'll give these patterns a few turns in the seams and see if they can produce, and if things don't look promising, I'll switch to the usual rogue's gallery of flies.

The plan this time is to hit some familiar runs at first light, followed by some vigorous walking and stalking the rest of the day - and with almost a month between fishing trips, I'm nursing a major urge to roll some hogs and my teats are getting a tad bit sore - so it's time to wean this baby, catch me some fish, and start acting like a man again.

And someone please tell those dogs that I'm gunning for them next.

Early Morning Madness

2009-07-12T22:13:00.019-06:00

The last time I ventured out to the water, it was a comedy of errors - chock-full of insane goodness. This time around, however, I was proactive to insure that my time at the river would be pleasant. Having packed all my gear on Thursday night, the only thing I had to worry about at 3:00 am Saturday morning was how much bacon I wanted to put on my egg and cheese biscuit.

That's right - I cut out the middle-man (middle....clown, perhaps?) and bought a box of Jimmy Dean breakfast biscuits - which I add extra bacon to because, let's be adults here....is there such a thing as too much bacon? Of course there isn't....and these folks seem to agree. Their slogan kicks MAJOR butt: 'Everything should taste like Bacon' Damn straight.

Wait a minute, you say...3 am? That's right...3 am. Here's why:

It's summer - the light at 5 am is perfect for fishing.
Crowds. Saturday up in the high country is crowded...crowds make me cranky.
Monsoon season. Which, here in Colorado, means severe afternoon storms...which has basically been the pattern since...oh, MARCH??!!?!?!

So, I hit the river early to avoid the crowds, have a great time, and then blow town about the time the storms are rolling in. Pretty simple.

Needless to say, I was at the water's edge just a little before 6 am, and the fish were out and about in a big way. So, as is my protocol when fishing the canyon, I started off by throwing some scuds at 'em....and they went nuts. They hit that fly hard...one after another. The first three fish that I set...I lost. But the fourth wasn't so lucky. Or the fifth, sixth and seventh for that matter.

And let me tell you about the seventh one - he worked me over good by dragging my carcass up and down the river, through weeds and bushes...I tripped several times in the process, and even went down on my ass when I accidentally stepped off the bank while watching him. It was a classic fight, and judging by the video, we we're both out of gas...

After that I managed to set two more fish - the first one popped, and the second one snapped my line and, in the process, took the last of my yellow/brown scud patterns. So I tied on an olive variation, but the fish were having nothing to do with it - they loved the brown scuds and I was out.

After that it was hit and miss - I hooked up a nice fish on a hare's ear (my LAST hare's ear) and he snapped my line. Hit one on a chartreuse Zebra...and my line snapped. What are ya going to do? There was some big fish in the river on Saturday...including one that was a monster.

While scoping the water, I noticed a dark shape moving upriver, and my jaw dropped. On the Taylor, a fish this big is pretty common - but in the Canyon? You don't see them very often. The last time I saw one this big, was last December, when Eva and I were fishing the Deckers area, and she helped me hook the darn thing.

This fish was easily in the 30 inch range...probably tipping the scales at the 6-8 lb. mark...and it parked right in front of me, in the middle of the river, on a nice, simple seam. It was like hitting the lottery. I sat there and stared, before changing out my tippet and making sure my knots were all nice and tidy. After filming the beast (as proof), I moved downstream a few paces and started to cast to him - hitting perfect drifts...and then he bolted. Off to the far side of the river...and then back down towards the fence-line. Ah well. Next time.

After that it got a little slow...and hot. By 11 am I had gone through both bottles of water that I had packed in...and there was a nasty storm brewing just to the north, so I opted to head on out. It was an incredible day...I hooked a lot of fish...and netted some really nice trout, so I had no complaints. By the time I got back to my truck and changed, the rain started coming down pretty heavy.

Yeah, that 3 am wake-up call was right on the money.

How Not to Fish

2009-06-26T19:39:00.011-06:00

Looking back over my blog, I realized that I've never posted anything of substance - anything that can be deemed useful to someone interested in the sport, or looking to expand their knowledge base.

So this time around, I've decided to be a pal and provide some useful information to anglers of all skills levels - for free. Ain't that nice? I even went so far as to hit the water this morning, to test all of the information that I am about to share - and as I write this, I reek of children's sunscreen and bug repellent because I'm that dedicated to making you a better fly-fisher-person(s). The shower can wait....

Rule #1 Don't forget Stuff at Home

I know - sometimes, when you're going fishing you get so giddy and excited your voice churns up a few octaves and you run around the house making squealing noises while prancing around like you really got to pee (aka The Pee Pee Dance). So, knowing this, that's exactly what I did this morning - I basically made an ass-hat out of myself for the sake of this post - to put myself in the mindset of the 'excited angler'.

Now, being excited about something is all well and good, but in this case, it can be a painful mistake. Research has shown that running around like a dip-shit in the early morning hours, trying to get all of the gear loaded into the truck (which should have been done the night before) can (and does) lead to stuff being left behind. What kind of stuff, you ask? Important stuff, kids, such as:

Cutting devices (which were used the night before to tie on a new leader and then left haphazardly on the table when they should have been returned to your fishing pack).
Sunglasses (which should not have been removed from the fishing pack and worn, even though HD TV looks 'cool' when viewed through them).
Cell Phone (the fallout from this blunder could be huge).
Comfort Items (for some, this could mean a flask or a Filipino hooker. In my case, it's a can of Copenhagen, which is a necessary evil for me when out on the water).
Fishing Socks (you know, the thin type that you wear inside your waders to wick the moisture away from your feet and to prevent blisters? Well, I got blisters on my feet).

When going fishing, always plan ahead and allow yourself adequate time to get your gear loaded up and ready - you'll be thankful you did.

Oh, and I didn't have any indicators, either - not that that would have mattered, since I probably would have left them at home, too.

Rule #2 Don't Believe McDonald's

As a kid, I always trusted that clown and his gaggle of goofy friends: Mayor McCheese, the Hamburgler, and even Grimace and the Fry Goblins. I believed in them. So, when I see a sign on a local store that says "Drive-Thru Open 24 Hours" I believe it. And why wouldn't I? Why would someone lie about something like that?

Being that I was going to hit the 24-Hour drive-through at Mickey-D's (like I've done in the past), I neglected to bring a coke from home. After all, being open 24 Hours, the employees at the Golden Arches would be more than happy to handle my dietary needs at 4:30 in the morning, right? Wrong. They were closed.

Now let me say this: my ice cold coke in the morning is akin to other people's coffee. It's my 'go-fast' and I need it to get my day started off right. If I don't have one - things just ain't right. And neither am I.

So, in the future, always be prepared and don't rely on deceitful corporations to full-fill your needs. Bring your own stuff (just don't forget it at home) and you won't end up hitting the water coke-less and hungry.

And speaking of hitting the water...

Rule #3 Silly Rabbit, Hooks are for Fish

That's right - for fish, not fingers. The last two times I've been on the water I've managed to set some hooks pretty deep into my digits. Now, it's not like it never happens...it just hasn't happened with this frequency. And never this deeply.

So what to do when this happens? Grab your hemostat and rip the damn thing out. After all, I'm now on the water without any means of cleanly cutting my line, I have no sunglasses whatsoever and I am without any indicators. What's a little tearing of flesh going to matter in the grand scheme of things?

The really pathetic part about it all? A little while later, I set yet another hook, in the precise same location as the last one. It all has to do with how I hold the hook when tying it on - the problem is, one overly-anxious tug on the line to cinch the knot, and I'm reaching for the clamps, because I sure as hell ain't going to the ER to get that thing removed. Besides, a little #22 doesn't tear things up too much when being ripped back out, especially the second time around..

Thankfully, some more severe weather was on it's way, and by 1 pm it was time to high-tail it out of the canyon - with the way my luck was running, the last place I wanted to be was in a narrow canyon, on the side of a river during one of these nasty storms we've been experiencing as of late.

So the lesson here is, tie your flies on like a normal person, and avoid the overly-spastic motions - your fingers will thank you, and you'll avoid wasting 20 minutes of your life performing an impromptu surgical procedure in the field.

Sure, my eyes were strained and felt like they would bust out of their sockets from trying to peer through the glare on the water. And yes, my head was throbbing from a lack of caffeine and sleep....and I was hungry as hell and my finger looked like something from an Evil Dead movie. But it was still a great time. I was not at work, I was outside, in the mountains, on a river, fishing.

And yes, I did manage to hook some fish...but that's not what this post is about. It's about throwing myself into the strike zone and taking one for the team. Because I'm nice like that. Plus, I'm just feeling too damn lazy to process videos and pull screen shots.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

2009-06-16T07:59:00.008-06:00

Sure, the late Irving Stone would not blink an eye at the events of Saturday, but then again, I doubt he was a fly fisherman either - but we, having been out on the water, know better, so it will be up to one of our own to write about it sometime in the future...

It's been eight months since I've last had the chance to fish the famed waters of the Taylor, so pulling into the parking area in the C&R section essentially sent my 'Angling Pleasure Receptors' through the roof.

Yeah, this river is a kick in the pants for fly fishing addicts everywhere - it's like (insert your politically-correct winter holiday here) for big people that fish.

Having bunked-down in Buena Vista Friday night, we were up at 3:30 am to make the drive over Cottonwood Pass and into the Taylor Park area, hoping to beat the horde of people that this river attracts (and for good reason).

The point was to get a good spot and hold it for the day - yeah, I know, to get the really big fish you need to walk the river and hit the holes where they're parked.

Since this was Eva's first time fishing this river, I thought it would be good to find an open section, with good seams that she could work on and hone her drift. Plus, I kind of liked the idea of staying put, given the heavy traffic that is on this river.

So, we wound up picking a section on the water, and worked it over good through the course of a day. On future trips, I promise that we'll play nicely and let others hit the section that we were on - Eva learned a lot, so next time I think she'll feel a little more comfortable walking the river and working more varied water.

Anyway - fish? Oh yeah. There was a ton of them in there - in the section in front of us, there were too many to count.

What's really cool is that, on the HD video, you can actually see all of fish in the water - and they're everywhere. It looks like a freaking fish hatchery, there's so many of them. But here's the catch: yes, the fish are plentiful, but they're not always so accommodating.

Watching a handful of 20+ inches of actively feeding trout, three feet off the bank in a foot of clear water and they're not hitting a damn thing you're throwing their way? Agony in it's purist form.

Even more hurtful is when the fish actually move out of the way of your fly as it drifts past, and then, just as smoothly, move back into place after it's gone. That goes beyond being 'snubbed' and is downright hateful on their part.

However, move downstream a few feet, throw your line in and you hit a bruiser on the first cast. Confusing, frustrating and pure excitement all wrapped up into one - a roller-coaster ride of emotional highs and lows, and I love every minute of it.

With that many targets, it didn't take long for me to hit my first trout. The second one I nailed was a certified Taylor hog, which I pulled from some deep water a little upstream from where Eva was. After about 10 minutes of fighting, and a scenic walk down the side of the river, my line broke and I was left with....not disappointment...but exhilaration. He was a beast of a fish and it had been a rush trying to get him in the net.

As for Eva, she did well for her first time on a very tough river - she bit into some nice-sized fish, but the line either snapped or they popped off the hook. Also, the environment is not the most relaxing to be in when you're still trying to get your feet under you - lots of spectators and heavy traffic along the dirt road can make one feel overly-exposed, so she's earned another badge of respect for braving that testosterone-soaked Angling Gauntlet.

Me, I set and lost more fish on Saturday than I have in a long time - snapped lines, bent hooks, etc. seemed to be the norm. And I did it using only ONE fly and a pea-sized indicator. Josh, I know that makes you cringe to hear that, but you know my philosophy - find the depth, nail the presentation, and there's no need for multiple flies and gimmicky set-ups. Maybe sometime in the future, we'll hit some water, and you can try to teach me the errors of my way...

Up until mid-afternoon, the weather was fantastic, but then the 'storm' came in. And it came in with bad intentions. The initial gust of wind damn near took me off my feet - I had to kneel to keep from getting blown over. And the grit (from the dirt road) that it was carrying was brutal - I felt like I was staring, point blank, into the nozzle of a sand-blaster - and when you mix that with freezing, stinging (horizontal) rain....it made for a very unpleasant experience.

Overall, it was a well-earned break - sexy company, beautiful scenery, good fishing, some hooks embedded deeply into fingers and a seriously wicked storm. Yup, I'm living a dream. Oh - and loaded hot dogs from Coney Island in Bailey? Yeah, that's a great way to round out the weekend if you ask me.